


strike me down

by Merricat_Blackwood



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Brainwashing, Child Abuse, Family Issues, Force Bond (Star Wars), Force Ghosts, Gen, Internal Conflict, Past Character Death, Recovery, Redemption, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Trauma, oh my god so much fucking angst, redemption arc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-11 13:58:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 177,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5629045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merricat_Blackwood/pseuds/Merricat_Blackwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kylo Ren's father is dead, but he isn't gone.  And dying hasn't made him any less determined to bring his son home. The question is, will Kylo Ren allow it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If only there were a way to kill a ghost. If only.

He's lying alone and immobile in the medbay of the Finalizer, when he feels a quiver in the Force, like a bowstring twinging backward and releasing a bolt into him. He flinches at the sensation; just because it is not physical doesn't mean it is not real. Kylo Ren is a mass of wounds, broken bits held together by bandages and salve and pure spite; he doesn't have it in him to keep the intruder out. Not this time.

Not that he doesn't try. When he feels the wretched familiarity of the presence beside his bed, he struggles to fight the old man off, but he loses in seconds. Even thirty-some years dead, the Jedi is more powerful than Kylo Ren is. Much more powerful.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi," Kylo snarls, his voice little more than a rasp, his eyes remaining closed. He has not opened them since the fight; the gash the scavenger girl gave him is jagged and raw up the middle of his face and even the slightest motion brings fresh pain. Even talking hurts. "What do you want?"

"It has been far too long, Ben," says the calm, clear voice. The tone of it is gentle and soothing, and brings on a sense of peace that Kylo Ren has to do everything he can to pull away from, to reject. _Peace is a lie, there is only passion._

"Don't call me that," he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut tighter despite the pulling on his blistered skin, despite the feeling that his skull just might split open, because he knows from past experience that ignoring the old man will not make him go away. Patience is Obi-Wan Kenobi's weapon, and he knows exactly how to wield it against Kylo Ren.

"And why not?" Kenobi's voice is closer now, as if the Jedi is leaning over the Knight of Ren, hovering like a fussy nursemaid. "It is the name you were given, when you were born."

This is an old argument. The fool never learns, even now. "I have been reborn, Kenobi," Kylo Ren says in as strong a voice as he can manage. It isn't much. His throat feels like it's been scraped from the inside out. "Ben is dead."

"Oh, no, my boy," says Obi-Wan, his voice softer now, but still crisp, confident, and clearly audible over the intermittent beeping of medical machines. "You are not. Not yet."

If only there were a way to kill a ghost. If only. "Are you blind and deaf out there in the Force, old man? Don't you know what's happened? Don't you know who else is ... dead?" He's surprised by the way the word sticks in his throat. It shouldn't be so hard to say. There should not be a bitter taste in his mouth when he speaks it. There should not be any taste at all. _He was dead to me long ago._ But the wound on his hip gives a mighty throb, and the burned flesh along his face ripples with it, and there is an ache behind his eyes that he tells himself is merely a physical reaction to physical pain, even though he knows it's not. He knows what his tears are for. And who.

"Of course I know," Obi-Wan is saying now, exasperation creeping into his voice. Patient he may be, but Kylo Ren tests that patience as only someone with Skywalker blood knows how to do. "Why else would I be here now? After all this time?"

A shuddering sigh leaves Kylo's lips. "So what is it, Kenobi? Did you come here to save me or to scold me? Neither will do you any good. Nor me, either. Not now."

"Scold you?" Obi-Wan's voice is scornful now, and lofty, as though the ghost has straightened to his full height. Kylo doesn't want to, but he can picture the old man, the blue flickering glow around him, brown robe fanned out as Obi-Wan puts his hands on his hips and frowns behind his neatly trimmed beard. "A scolding is less than a thousandth of what you deserve. And save you?” The ghost lets out the softest of sighs. “That is far, far beyond my power."

"Perfect," Kylo snarls, ignoring the agony he feels as his wounded face contorts. No, he shouldn't ignore it, that's what a Jedi would do. He welcomes the pain instead, embraces it, uses it to fuel his anger. "I don't want to be saved."

"You were always a terrible liar, Ben," says Obi-Wan.

Rage rises up in Kylo's chest and instinctively, his eyes fly open as he struggles to sit up and face his phantom accuser. He wasn't ready for this much pain; it floods him with fresh memories that his body and mind are still too weak to defend against. He falls back down, but keeps his stinging, tearing eyes open in defiance, glaring up at Kenobi's ghost through a haze. "You're a fool," he says with all the fury at his disposal. “A stubborn old fool who doesn't know when to give up."

Obi-Wan, naturally, looks utterly unmoved by the criticism. "You're far from the first to call me a fool, Ben. The word has long since lost its sting for me. But perhaps you should take this time, this time of your healing, to reflect on your own foolishness."

The rage inside of Kylo Ren sparks and flares. "My ... what?"

Obi-Wan is angry now too, his blue eyes giving a telltale flash, his jaw tightening under the snow-white of his beard. "You are trying desperately to be someone whom you are not," the old Jedi says harshly. "You are shattering yourself into pieces to fill a role that was never meant for a heart as tender as yours. But you cannot alter your nature, Ben Solo. You try so hard to fill yourself with darkness, but as long as a single spark of light remains in you, you will never succeed. And even now, I still sense  _much_ light in you. More than you know. You could set the world on fire with it."

The strangled sound that Kylo makes could well be called a sob, if there were anyone around to label it such.  There isn't, so it doesn't matter.  Nothing matters.  But the decrepit old fossil just.  keeps. talking. 

"This changes nothing, Ben," Obi-Wan preaches. "It only serves to carve another scar into your gentle heart, a wound which will never heal. Your attempted destruction of your father was only another failed step on your tragic, pointless quest to destroy yourself ..."

 _ **"Stop."** _ The word rips ragged from deep in Kylo's chest. "My ... _attempted_ ... destruction ... of my ..." He can't finish the sentence; he runs out of breath and is left gasping, his heart blazing with a fear so horrible, it almost feels like hope.

Obi-Wan doesn't look angry anymore. He looks sorrowful, pitying, and this so much worse. "Ben, poor, sweet Ben," he says quietly, like he's talking to the child that Kylo Ren used to be, who was afraid of everything and wanted nothing more than for his father to come home. "You have forgotten so much since you turned your face to the darkness. You ought to have remembered that nothing is every really destroyed, only transformed. Did you really think that killing your father would rid you of him? Did you forget that everyone transforms into the Force?”

Kylo Ren shakes his head. It feels like the ground is opening up underneath him yet again, leaving nothing for him to hold on to, everything he thought he could depend on, all his hard-earned strength being swallowed up in the abyss. “What you're saying is … not possible,” he says so harshly that he barely recognizes his own voice. “It doesn't matter. My … Han Solo was no Jedi. There's no coming back, not for him. He was powerless in life and he's even more powerless in death.”

“How little you know,” Obi-Wan says, shaking his head. “Through the Force, many things are possible that you would not believe or understand. Fortunately, I do. No, your father could not have come to you of his own accord … which is why I have brought him."

" _ **No**_. No, no, no, no..." Kylo is up, regardless of the pain. He reacts on instinct as though to the threat of death, not like a warrior, but like a child, all but falling out of his bed, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and Obi-Wan Kenobi and whatever tricks the old wizard is trying to conjure. He scrambles back, weak, clumsy with pain, until his back is against the wall and then there's nowhere left to go and it's too late anyway, because the air next to Obi-Wan is shimmering and a form is appearing there, coming slowly and painfully into focus. Kylo's eyes water and then his vision clears and there's no escape, no hope left for him, no denying the truth. 

Han Solo is standing there, flickering in the light of the Force. Dead, yes … but exactly the opposite of gone.

The craggy face, the ruffled gray hair, the clear eyes. That stupid, stupid jacket. Blaster still on his hip as though he'll ever have a use for it again. Even the look on his face – fear and anger and hope and stubborn, foolish love – just as he appeared the last time that Ben saw him … _No, that's wrong, I'm not Ben,_ he thinks desperately, _I'm Kylo Ren and I killed you._

But if Ben is truly gone, then why does his broken heart lift to meet the sight of Ben's father? Why can his stinging eyes not bear to look away? 

“Hey, kid,” Han Solo says gruffly, taking one step towards him, extending a weathered hand as though to help him to his feet. “Don't worry, I'm not mad.  Okay, that's a lie, I'm furious, but I guess I'll probably get over it.  I'm here now, Ben, so listen ..." 

Kylo Ren escapes his father in the only way he can. He faints.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, Kylo Ren and Han's relationship hit me really hard (broke my heart, really) and i wanted to explore what would happen if with the help of the man he named his son after, Han was still able to reach his son after death. I'm not 100 percent sure where I'm going with this story but I do know that being dead hasn't made Han any less determined to bring Ben back. And he and Obi-Wan really are stubborn ...  
> Even though I've loved Star Wars longer than I can remember, this is the first fanfic I've done for it, and I'm a little nervous. All comments are very appreciated! Thanks so much for reading :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You'll never be rid of me, Ben."

Unfortunately, the assault doesn't stop just because he's unconscious. In fact, it only gets worse. His mind has become a defenseless void: since it cannot possibly get any darker, all it can do is take in more light, and more, and still _more,_ until he's weightless, floating, _**warm.**_

He feels Han Solo there with him, too near. Unable to move, unable to wake, Kylo Ren is also unable to flee. The presence of the dead smuggler, the dead general, the dead traitor, the dead father, surrounds him, wraps around him like the Force itself, and to deny it would be to cease existing.

"You think you got rid of me, kid?" the gruff voice says, not in his ears but in his very soul, making his entire being ring with the words. "No way. You'll never be rid of me, Ben. I'll be with you, watching you, even if you can't see me. Even if you don't want to see me." There's a drawing back, a moment of respite, and then the whisper, harsh with compassion: "I'm never leaving you again, kid."

Kylo Ren wakes up shaking on the cold floor, his lashes sticky with tears, the wound on his hip bleeding again. Worst of all, he's left with the lingering sensation that someone has kissed the burned flesh on his forehead, nose, and cheek.

After that, the light doesn't just _call_ to him anymore. It teases. It berates. It gives unwanted advice. It mocks. It won't. _shut._ **_up._ ** It speaks to him in his father's voice, or sometimes Obi-Wan's, or sometimes both at once. Often, it makes sarcastic comments. Less often, it tells him it **_loves_** him. At night it sings to him, an old, rowdy Corellian drinking song that dredges up long-buried memories, drags claws across his composure. Now he's doubly glad of his mask (a copy, to replace the one he lost on Starkiller): so no one can see his red and puffy eyes, the dark hollows beneath them carved by sleepless nights of fighting off the idiotic persistence of two old, dead men.  He used to wear it mainly because without it, no one was afraid of him. Now he also wears it because he's afraid of himself. On the outside, things appear much as usual. There are scarred, charred walls all across the base, sparks flying through the air in his wake, officers rubbing their throats and walking faster to get out of his way when he stomps down the corridors.  Everyone walks in fear of him.

He finds it deeply ironic that of them know, none of them even suspect, the fear that he carries with him in his own dark heart.

Days pass. Weeks. His wounds have healed, and finally Supreme Leader Snoke sends for him. He's been waiting for this moment for weeks, no, _years,_ so why is he dreading it so deeply now? Kylo Ren knows that Snoke wants his training to move forward immediately. There have been enough delays. He has proven himself.  He has earned this.  With the blood of his father, he earned it. But how can he move forward with these voices in his head, with this so-called _light_ still burning somewhere deep in his soul? How can he bring Han Solo and Obi-Wan Kenobi with him? Because he knows by now that leaving them behind isn't working.

And yet, how can he remain as he is, broken inside, aching with the knowledge of what he has done, carrying the weight of everything he has ruined and broken and betrayed in order to make it this far? But his master has summoned him; everything has been leading up to this.  He is a dying star, he has burned better and brighter things in his wake, he cannot change his trajectory now. He cannot refuse to come.

"You can refuse whatever you wish to refuse," Obi-Wan says from a dim corner while Kylo Ren glares into a mirror, brushing his hair. A pointless gesture, since he's about to put his helmet on, but it calms him down.  Or it usually does. 

"You can still say no to him, Ben,” Han Solo says urgently, from beside Obi-Wan. “It's not too late."

"Thank you so much for reminding me," Kylo sneers, watching his own scarred face in the mirror, contorting with his anger, his frustration, his conflict. _No. There is no conflict; the Dark Side is my strength._ "Can I refuse to listen to any more of these desperate attempts to weaken me?"

“Weak is the last thing you are,” Han Solo says roughly, glaring at him from beneath gray eyebrows that will now want trimming for all eternity. Odd how him saying that makes Kylo Ren less sure of it. But then, his father always was full of false promises.

Obi-Wan heaves a sigh, crossing his arms. "We are not the ones who are desperate here, my boy," he says pointedly.

"You're a relic," Kylo snaps, wincing as he tears through a small tangle in his hair. 

"And you're a child who doesn't know when to stop breaking things," Kenobi shoots back. "Just like your grandfather ... and no, in this instance, I don't mean that as a compliment."

Kylo hurls his hairbrush at the ghost. Predictably, it passes through his glowing form and breaks in half against the wall. Han snorts, and Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, as though the master of the Knights of Ren really is nothing more than a child throwing a tantrum ... and in that moment, that's exactly how he feels.

"I'm going to complete my training," Kylo Ren says hotly, his shoulders shaking, his fists clenched, "and there is nothing that either of you can do to stop me."

Han Solo glowers, and raises a forefinger, pointing forcefully at his son. “Now you listen to me, Ben Solo...”

A half-strangled howl tears loose from Kylo Ren's throat, and he whirls to face his father's ghost, pushing out with his mind as hard as he can, as angrily as he can, and Han Solo has a moment to register surprise and hurt before stumbling back and blinking out of sight. He looks just as he did when his body crumpled and he toppled off that bridge. For the first time it occurs to Kylo Ren – for the first time he _allows_ it to occur to him – that the man might not yet have been quite dead when he hit whatever was at the bottom of …

 ** _STOP_**. There is a twisting in his stomach, a knot in his throat making it hard to breathe, a heaviness in him that makes him wish he could stop breathing. _What does it matter if Han Solo was dead when he hit the ground? He's dead now._ _Just not dead enough._

Kenobi blinks in shock – it's his power that allows Solo to appear, and he should have been able to keep him there, but he clearly underestimated Kylo Ren's lack of desire for interference.

“There's _nothing_ you can do for me,” Kylo repeats, his breath short, his black-clad body trembling.

Obi-Wan looks at the Knight for a long time. A very long time. There is a sadness in those spectral blue eyes, a sadness deeper than Kylo Ren has ever seen the old man display before, and there's a single treacherous string in his heart that twinges in response to it. It seems cruel to taunt a dead thing. It feels like hurting the ghosts is somehow the same thing as hurting himself. 

"Of course there's nothing we can do, Ben," the old Jedi says softly. "But we are with you all the same."

It's the not the response that he wanted. Not even close. But it's about what he expected. _Jedi are so predictable.  As are fathers._

“Get out,” he whispers, turning his face away. “I want to be alone.”

“You can pretend you are alone, if you want,” Obi-Wan says, fading out. “You can pretend to believe in your own lies. It will never be enough.”

The words echo in the air long after the ghost is gone.  He replaces the sound of Kenobi's words with the sound of breaking glass; he smashes his mirror.  He's sick of his own face.  He's sick of everything.  

Kylo Ren wraps his bleeding knuckles, puts on his gloves.  Dons his cloak. He takes a deep breath. He takes another. He takes twenty. He puts on his mask and just hopes that it will be enough to hide the truth about him: his weakness and his doubt. His unworthiness and his shame. His sorrow for things he lost long ago that somehow feel like fresh wounds. He cannot go on this way. If nothing else, he has to banish these ridiculous emotions and dangerous thoughts from his mind before he faces his master. Supreme Leader can never know how his apprentice is being haunted. It would undo everything. It would render every year of Kylo Ren's life irrelevant. It would make every splintered piece of his soul start hurting again, just when blissful numbness seemed within his reach. It would make every sacrifice pointless, and it would mean that ...

 _... it would mean that you killed your father for no reason at all._ That thought is as hot as a sudden spurt of blood, and he replaces it at once with something cold and icy. _You killed him because you wanted to.  Because he failed you, and you hated him, and because he stood in your way. That's reason enough._

This lie, which he momentarily accepts as truth, sustains him long enough for him to face his master.

But the words echo.

The image of his father falling plays back before his bloodshot eyes.

_It will never be enough._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How dare you bow to anyone?

He has been balancing on a precipice for as long as he can remember. Today is no exception. There is a hair's breadth between Kylo Ren and a toppling into something that they call the light. He manages to keep his feet. He manages to remain on the side of the dark. Another day, another tiny victory in a never-ending war against himself.

It's more than important that he do this. It is essential.

He steps into a chamber so dark and cold that it almost feels like space itself. Airless. Timeless. A void where somehow everything lives and yet nothing can survive. It's not the first time that he's had that thought about his master's audience chamber, but it's the first time in a long time. It's all just a part of his training that began so long ago: learning how to stop his eyes from watering and his nose from running in the cold. Learning how to see clearly in the dark. How to stand in his master's presence without shivering.

He makes himself think of nothing, nothing but being the version of himself of Supreme Leader wants to see. The one that _he_ wants to see. _The only version that exists_ , he corrects himself frantically, and straightens his spine in preparation for the bowing.

It's the first time he has seen his master in person in many months. It ought to feel like coming home. It doesn't.

 _You had a home, Ben. It was with your mother. It was with me._ The voice of his father, coming from far away and yet still intimately inside his mind, jars him almost physically. He's saved only by the anger that wells up in him at the sentimental lie. He doesn't bother to answer.

 _A heart that is split in two cannot hope to find a home anywhere,_ pipes up Obi-Wan.

Is the old man a Jedi or a poet? Such drivel isn't worth any acknowledgment, and anyway, Supreme Leader's face is filling up his gaze now and his training is taking over, turning him to steel. His feet are moving forward without any conscious thought from him, and his body sinks into a genuflecting position before the place where his master's chair sits, and his master within it, his physical form much smaller than the holographic projection he fancies. But no less imposing, to those who know what he is capable of. And Kylo Ren knows very well.

“Lord Snoke,” he says, the sound of his voice issuing reverently from under his mask. The floor feels unnaturally hard beneath his knee. The very position feels unnatural, even though this gesture of respect is one he has performed hundreds if not thousands of times before. _Remember who you are,_ he thinks sharply, suddenly. _Remember who you come from. You're a Solo, an Organa, a **Skywalker**_. _How dare **you** bow to anyone?_ He's shocked to realize that that particular thought isn't being sent into his mind by his father or Obi-Wan. It's his own thought, traitorous and dangerous and horrifying, but he banishes it before it can take root. His ears are ringing and his cheeks, blessedly concealed, are flushed with guilt and shame.

“Rise, Kylo Ren,” Supreme Leader says, waving a pale hand.

He does so, numbed with the fear and relief of his near-miss.

“I have, of course, been receiving regular reports of your progress,” his master says, looking right up at him, almost through him, with huge unblinking eyes. “I am pleased that you are once again as strong as ever.”

“Stronger, my lord,” Kylo Ren offers.

“We shall see.” Supreme Leader leans back in his chair, steepling long fingers beneath his sunken chin, cocking his misshapen head. His expression is quizzical, and his voice calm, but the words he says next are no easier to hear. “After you were nearly slaughtered by an untrained girl of no name, I must admit … I had feared you might be lost.”

His blood runs cold. _He knows_ …

 _No, he doesn't know, but he soon will if you don't get yourself under control,_ Obi-Wan says sternly.

 _Typical,_ Kylo thinks semi-hysterically. _The old man caused this whole disaster in the first place and now he wants to lecture me on control?_

_Yes, I do, and you would be wise to heed me._

“I understand, master.” Kylo Ren hangs his head low, the very picture of contrition. “You were right about the girl. Her strength was my weakness. I'm sorry for allowing her to escape...”

Snoke makes a shushing sound, cutting Kylo off mid-apology. “Enough. Excuses will not erase your mistake. Save your breath ... you will have another chance with the girl, and I fully trust that, having learned your lesson once, you will not fail to deliver her to me a second time.”

“I will not fail you again, my lord. I swear it. Your trust in me is not misplaced.”

“Good.” Snoke seems relaxed now, pleased. His twisted mouth twists further into his version of a smile. “Perhaps I should be more generous with you in this matter, Kylo Ren. The Force is strong with you. You made a valiant effort, considering you were suffering from a wound inflicted by a weapon that would have annihilated a lesser man.”

 _Chewbacca's bowcaster._ He remembers the scene, unnervingly vivid, the sound of the Wookiee's howl echoing in the emptiness that followed Han Solo's fall. It had drowned out the howling inside of Kylo Ren's head. That haunted cry had torn through the air and brought the unspeakable pain of the shot with it, fire and ice in his side. Physically it's the worst pain he's ever known. He remembers something else too, irrevocably, something from much longer ago: looking down at his own small, chubby hands digging into Chewie's wiry fur as he was carried about on those massive shoulders. Reaching up to grab a red leaf from a tree branch just above his head, and being admonished by a loud whine; Chewie was always anxious that Ben was going to fall off, but Ben was never afraid. He knew that Chewie would never let him get hurt. Sitting on Chewie's shoulders was the first time in his life that he ever felt tall …

 _That boy is gone._ The thoughts vanish like whiffs of smoke. He makes them dissipate before they can be detected.

“Who are you?” Snoke asks him then, sounding bored. But like everything else about his master, the boredom is a facade, designed to catch the people around him off their guard and make them reveal all their weaknesses, all their flaws, all their tiny disloyalties.

There can be no hesitation. There is no hesitation. “Kylo Ren.”

“And whom do you serve?”

“You, Supreme Leader.”

 _Supreme Leader,_ Han Solo snickers from the depths of Kylo Ren's mind. _Who does this guy think he is? Even Palpatine was content to just be an Emperor. Supreme Leader, my …_ Kylo squashes the voice as fast as he can, like stomping on an insect.

“What is it that you desire?” Supreme Leader inquires, leaning forward slightly in his chair, a glint in his enormous eyes. Not a question that many ordinary people would find it easy to answer, but for Kylo Ren, the answer has always been the same. It should not be any different now. It cannot be any different now.

The words leave his lips with the same practiced, careful calm that they have done so many times before, emerging from beneath his mask with a perfect note of cold detachment. "To complete my training and find ultimate power and freedom in the Dark Side of the Force."

Lord Snoke nods, studying his apprentice with apparent mildness, but there is something else in his pale, warped face. Something ... not quite suspicious, but curious, as though he wishes to continue the conference, to probe further. After so many years, so many meetings just like this one, for the most part Kylo Ren can make himself not think about how dangerous Snoke is. How powerful. How capable of ripping apart everyone who displeases him. For the most part. But the knowledge is always there beneath the surface like a slow-acting poison, and there are times, like now, when Kylo Ren looks at his master's face and wants to scream, run, beg, do anything to make sure that those powers are not turned on him. _Not again._

"Take off your mask, Kylo Ren," Snoke says after a purposeful, painfully long silence.

Something stutters inside him, like a candle flame caught in a strong draft.

"My lord?"

"Your mask, Kylo Ren," Snoke repeats with a patience that can only be displayed by someone who has all the power and all the time in the world. It reminds him unpleasantly of Obi-Wan ... except that Obi-Wan tends to make suggestions rather than issue commands. "Remove it."

"Yes, Supreme Leader," says Kylo Ren, because what else can he say? What else can he do? He has long since sworn total obedience. He has been promised that in return, one day he will be as powerful as he wants to be, but now ... now, even his face is not his own.

He takes a moment to regulate his breathing before detaching the helmet and lifting it away, exposing his skin to the frigid air and his master's equally frigid gaze. Kylo has to work very hard to keep his features immobile. It's never been a strong suit of his. But now he has a surprising advantage: he uses the scar. The skin there is still new and stiff, and it's easy to imagine that stiffness spreading out and engulfing the rest of him, holding his expressive face immobile, making him look dead behind the eyes.

"Hmm," says Lord Snoke, his immense black eyes taking in everything, scraping up every detail. "Come closer, Kylo Ren."

He does, although his most primal instincts would have him run. Closing the distance between himself and his master, he goes to one knee once again at the other's indication. A cold and somewhat sticky hand reaches out to trace the scar from where it begins at his forehead and tears down past his nose and towards his chin, making uneven halves of a whole that was never symmetrical to begin with. Pain awakens beneath the touch of Snoke's hand, but Kylo Ren does not flinch once. He has had worse. And right now all of his concentration, every ounce of power he possesses, is needed for another task.

He has to keep Supreme Leader out of his mind, a place that Snoke has freely tromped through in the past, without his master realizing that he's doing it. It's not the first time that his objectives have crossed with Lord Snoke's – the fiasco with the scavenger girl being the most obvious example – but it is perhaps the time when his success is the most vital.

Because if his master gets into his mind right now, then Kylo Ren is done for. The weakness within him cannot be allowed. If Supreme Leader senses even for a second that Obi-Wan Kenobi and Han Solo are here, then there will be punishment in store for Kylo Ren. And it will not be some mild form of torment, something easily mastered or risen above. It will be something truly horrible, something well beyond his own imaginings. He will be kicked back down to the bottom of the ladder and forced to crawl back up with his bare hands. Or maybe this will be the thing that prompts his master to cast him off for good. It would be a perfectly understandable solution.

Because the truth, the truth which Snoke can never know, is that Kylo Ren has failed his greatest test.

Killing Han Solo was supposed to _negate_ him, to grace Kylo with the power of more darkness and to make his father no longer a factor in his life.

Instead, he has never been more of a factor.

Instead, Han Solo has become more a part of his son than ever before.

 _I won't let him weaken me further,_ he vows. _I won't let either of them cost me this._ So he does the opposite of what he does so well to others; he turns his greatest power inside out. He shoves Han and Obi-Wan in a vault in his mind, locks that vault inside of another vault, and then another, and then another. He imagines sets of blast doors slamming closed, one after another after another, until he loses count, and when he's done he cannot feel either of them anymore, although he knows that they must be there. Somewhere. They are part of the Force and he cannot alter that. But the point is, Snoke doesn't know.

Kylo Ren holds his breath and his two remaining secrets jealously, protectively close. A ridiculous way to feel about those ghost he hates so much, but hated or not, Kenobi and Solo are _his._ He will not share them.

“I had heard that the girl had marked you,” says Lord Snoke, still running his fingertips across the raw, new skin, still deliberately calling up twinges of pain along its length and breadth. Another test, another torture, they never end. “Tell me, was there nothing that could be done?”

“I chose to keep the scar, my lord,” Kylo Ren says flatly. “It reminds me of my mistake, so that I can do better in the future.”

Snoke is diverted, or seems to be. His apprentice doesn't dare probe his mind for confirmation, but it's there in the way that his master stops causing him pain and almost gently takes his sticky-fingered hands away, folding them as he sits back contentedly once more. “Your commitment to the Dark Side of the Force is stronger than ever before,” Snoke says with something close to warmth and deep with satisfaction. “I feel it flowing in you; your veins running black and thick with it. I am much pleased, Kylo Ren.”

“Thank you, my lord.” His words do not echo in the vastness and cold of the chamber, but seem to be swallowed up instead. Swallowed up by Lord Snoke and his ever-watchful eyes and the black hole of his mind which is beyond equal to the task of devouring his enemies, taking them apart piece by piece until nothing remains. Snoke deals in tidbits of truth, scraps of rewards; it's how he keeps his followers hungry for his approval. Whether he fully believes his apprentice's words remains to be seen. But he has chosen to act as though he believes them, to proceed as though everything is as it should be. So Kylo Ren is safe for another day.

"Your training will commence as planned," Snoke is saying now. "I will not say when, nor where, nor how. Stay watchful, Kylo Ren. Soon, all that you have worked for will be within your hands."

"Yes, Supreme Leader," he answers, almost breathless with relief, sick with a gut-punch of pride. "I will be ready."

"Go now," says Snoke, gesturing vaguely toward the exit. "Prepare yourself."

With one last deep bow of his head, mask tucked beneath his arm, Kylo Ren takes leave of his master.

He manages to make it back to his quarters unseen before the stony expression slips irretrievably from his stiffened features. The door has barely closed behind him before the mask slips from his hand and clangs hollowly to the floor. In his absence, some overly helpful housekeeping droid has cleared away the broken mirror and replaced it. For some reason, this enrages him, making him feel as though nothing he does will ever make the slightest bit of difference in the world.

_But then, some things that are broken can never be replaced._

The flood of helpless rage he feels breaks through the mental guards he's put in place, and the ghosts are freed. Obi-Wan is silent and merely eyes him sadly and disapprovingly, but Han looks ... it's hard to describe the look he wears. There's pity there, perhaps, but it's nearly drowned by anger.

"Well, Ben?" the ghost of his father challenges him, chin tilted, arms crossed. "Was that all you dreamed it would be?"

_Ignore him, ignore him, ignore him. He doesn't matter._

"Free of your pain yet, kid?" Han Solo demands. "Or are you still being torn apart?"

The sound of his own words, spoken in the weakest and most desperate moment of his life, thrown back at him now in that angry, mocking tone ... it's more than he can possibly bear. His lightsaber is out in an instant, ignited and crackling. He had to repair it after the scavenger girl's assault, and it's more erratic now than ever, burning too hot and spitting sparks rapidly.

"Oh, no," Han Solo says with an almost toxic dose of sarcasm, raising spectral hands in mock-surrender. "Am I supposed to be _scared?_ "

The fact that his father's ghost is making a joke of his death is absolutely the worst thing he could imagine, a worse punishment than anything even Snoke could have devised. It tears at him, starting at the edges of his heart and spreading outwards like a shock wave that takes over his body and makes a human disaster of him, yet again.

Kylo Ren rips into the nearest wall, scoring it with glowing burns, sending a shower of sparks sailing through the air. Some of them land on his clothes and his skin. He doesn't feel it and he doesn't care. He slashes until his arms are tired and he screams until his throat hurts but he can feel them there, he can _still_ feel them there, watching him, judging him, caring about him but never leaving him a moment's peace. His rampage is only checked when he whirls around to cut a nearby table in half and realizes, just in time, that his grandfather's melted mask is resting on it.

Trembling hands deactivate the lightsaber and he slides to the ground, empty. 

Darkness, after all, is only an absence of light.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Father and son, left alone in the wreckage.

In the aftermath of the outburst, Obi-Wan sighs.

“Do you truly think that your grandfather would approve of this reckless path you throw yourself down, Ben?”

Still shaking with the violence of his exertions, Kylo Ren looks sharply up at the ghost. In the moment, he doesn't have the energy to scrunch his face into a glare. All that he can do is stare like the wild, wounded thing he is, his eyes stinging at the ghost's unbearable brightness.

“Darth Vader would ...”

“Darth Vader,” Obi-Wan cuts in icily, blue eyes flashing, “was _not_ your grandfather. No more than you are truly Kylo Ren. It was a mask he wore, just like that unsightly thing that you insist upon. His name was Anakin Skywalker and he was … he was a _good_ man.” The dead Jedi's face is stern and his voice is fierce, as if daring Kylo to deny it.

“Not always,” Kylo Ren mutters darkly in response.

He's struck a nerve, that much he can see, but he doesn't have time to derive any satisfaction from it. Perhaps in this moment he's not capable of deriving satisfaction from anything. Even tormenting Obi-Wan Kenobi.

“He returned to the light in the end,” Obi-Wan murmurs, a trace of joy, of pride on his face. There's a second when he doesn't look at all like an old man anymore, when his face seems to lose two decades of suffering and strain and he seems so much lighter, so much more free, that Kylo Ren's throat aches unexpectedly. Envy, it tastes like envy. “He became himself again, at the close of his life. I only hope, Ben, that you will not wait that long.”

Kylo Ren swallows, hard, biting back on the doubtful feelings that threaten to overwhelm him once again. “He chose the wrong master,” he says slowly, carefully. “Allowed sentiment to overpower him. I didn't make that mistake. There's no reason for me to change.” _Not after what I've done. Not anymore._

“I can think of a few,” Han Solo snaps.

He can't look at his father's ghost right now, can't address him. There's too much hanging in the air between them, the air that still sizzles with lightsaber sparks and the salt of tears. He speaks coldly to Obi-Wan instead.

“If my grandfather would so heartily disapprove of my path in life, then why doesn't he tell me so himself?” He is very bitter over this. His grandfather has appeared and spoken to him only once, in a dream he had as a child, and he's been striving ever since to recapture that feeling of being protected and graced in the presence of someone indescribably great, someone impossibly strong.

“Because,” Obi-Wan answers bluntly, “you won't _allow_ him to appear to you, Ben.”

“... _what_?” Kylo demands, when he can breathe again.

Obi-Wan stares him down, arms crossed, not a trace of deception in those piercing eyes. “You are blocking Anakin from appearing to you because you know, deep in your heart, that what he would have to say to you would not be what you wanted to hear. It would be too hard for you, and it would mean too much, and you would have no choice but to listen to him. You cannot bear the thought of it, so you simply shut him out and continue along this destructive way you've made for yourself.”

His heart is hammering, his mouth dry, his eyes burning. This can't be true. It's not possible. “You're … you're wrong! You _must_ be wrong. If I only saw what I wanted to see, then what … what would you be doing here?” He jerks his head in his father's direction. “What would _he_ be doing here?”

Obi-Wan raises his eyebrows at Kylo Ren. “You know why, Ben. Because on the inside, you are a frightened little boy, and all you want is your father.”

Kylo's aching mind has gone from a shattered wall of red to a roiling sheet of white static.

“Old man,” Han breaks in, sounding determined, “do you think I could talk to my son alone?”

“Of course,” says Obi-Wan, gracious and as always, slightly mournful.

“Thanks.” Han does not sound particularly thankful.

The old Jedi fades away, settling neatly back into the fabric of the Force, and father and son are left in the wreckage of the room.

"Well," says Han Solo, unimpressed, eyes fixed on Kylo Ren. "That was one hell of a tantrum. You had more restraint when you were two years old than you do now, kid."

"Do you," Kylo Ren says through his teeth, breathing so hard and animalistic that it hurts his chest, "have _any_ idea what you could have cost me today?"

There's a moment of stony silence before the ghost replies. "Ben, I'm gonna give you a second to think about the irony of _you_ telling _me_ what I could have cost _you_."

It's the first time that Han Solo sounds properly bitter about the end of his own life, and it ought to fill Kylo Ren with satisfaction, but it makes him feel sick to his stomach instead. He digs his gloved fingertips into his knees as hard as he can, focusing on the prickles of pain.

“I hate you,” he hears himself muttering, with no heat, with no venom, with nothing but a child's frustration at not getting his way.

Hurt flashes briefly on Han Solo's strong features. He blinks it away and covers it with a frown, but it's been seen, noted, _felt._ “Yeah, kid, I know. I think you proved that when you shoved your crazy-looking lightsaber through my chest.”

Leaning against the ragged, cooling remains of the wall, Kylo Ren draws his knees in close to his own chest, folds his arms around his legs, and hides his flushed face beneath his sweat-damp hair.

"You shouldn't ... have followed me," he chokes. He doesn't know why he says it except that it's true and he wants it said. The smuggler has no one but himself to blame for his demise. He ought to have known what was waiting for him on that bridge. He ought to have understood it; the power of the darkness. If he had only used an ounce of common sense, if he had not held out his frail and sentimental and stupid hope that a boy named Ben still existed, still _loved_ him, then neither of them would be in this unbearable position now. “You shouldn't have called out.”

"And what was my other option, huh, Ben? Leave you there to die?" There is a hitch in the ghost's voice, layered over with the usual gruffness.

“You weren't on Starkiller for me. Don't you _dare_ try to pretend that you were there for _me_ ,” Kylo whispers.

A hesitation. An exhalation.

“Maybe not,” Han Solo's ghost admits. “Maybe not at first. But whatever other reasons I had for going on that mission, I knew one thing from the moment I saw you standing on that bridge, Ben: I wasn't leaving there without you.”

Well, at least he had succeeded in that much. _He didn't leave without me. He didn't leave at all._ It's a dark thought, and it might have been intended to be humorous, but there's nothing he can find funny right now.

“What are you still doing here?” he asks, sullen, resentful.

The ghost throws up his hands in total frustration. “I'm trying to help you, damn it!”

“Well, you're not. All that you're doing is making everything worse.”

“Well maybe you should have thought of that before you freed me from my mortal coil,” his father says sarcastically. "If you hadn't killed me, it wouldn't be half as easy for me to follow you around and yap at you, now you would it?"

Jokes again. At a time like this. Nothing is fair.

"If you're trying to get me to admit that I made a mistake," Kylo enunciates chillingly, "then you'll be waiting a very long time."

His father regards him with a surprisingly neutral expression. "A very long time, huh? I can do that."

Anger flares up in Kylo Ren again, but it's not the uncontainable inferno of a little while before. He can't summon that now, it would take too much effort. "Why bother?" he demands, his voice quiet but harsh, holding himself back so hard it hurts. "You can't seriously believe that there's any chance I'll return to the ... the weak, foolish child you last knew me as. You can't seriously think that I _want_ to go back." _I don't have anything to go back to._ He doesn't speak that last part aloud, but he has the feeling that Han knows what's on his mind.

"I don't know what you want, kid," Han Solo admits. "Because guess what? Neither do you."

"I do know what I want. To be ..."

"Free, powerful, strong with the Dark Side, blah blah, I get it." The ghost rolls his eyes. "I was there today. I heard what you were selling. And I gotta say, I wasn't buying it."

Kylo Ren sputters. "What ... what more do I possibly have to do to convince you?"

"It's not me you've gotta convince, kid. It's yourself. And that slimy-looking master of yours." Han speaks the word with a deep loathing that Kylo Ren wants to contradict, but doesn't. It isn't worth the time or trouble that it takes to argue with Han Solo. But his father isn't done.

"I will say this, though." The ghost leans casually in a corner now, surveying the wreckage of the room. "I didn't think that dark lords spent this much time trashing their quarters, or having emotional breakdowns, or arguing with dead people. But hey, what do I know?"

"Nothing," Kylo spits. "As usual."

Han Solo shrugs. It's strange, now that he's paying attention Kylo notices the ghost, over the time he's been manifesting, has been changing subtly in appearance. It's hard to tell, but it seems as though his father is ever-so-slowly getting younger: a little more brown in his hair, a little more spring in his phantom step. A glint in his hazel eyes that can only be described as cocky. "I know how to keep you talking to me, anyway,” his father says with a crooked grin.

Kylo clamps his mouth shut and frowns upwards with all the ferocity he can muster. But the ghost just laughs.

"I know that look," he says delightedly. "You used to make that same face whenever your mom was trying to get you to fess up to something. I never understood why you bothered trying not to talk, 'cause you always just ended up blaming Threepio anyway."

Kylo Ren bites his lower lip until he tastes a thread of blood. The temptation to argue, to contradict, to fling sarcasm and cold retorts back at his father, is as enticing as the Dark Side ever was. And unfortunately, it seems to come more naturally to him.

"Of course, it probably was Threepio's fault a lot of the time," Han muses, looking at the ceiling. "I never should have let you hang around him so much. He probably drove you crazy with that statistic-spewing mouth of his..."

"If you think," Kylo blurts out, unable to contain himself any longer, "that spoon-feeding me these ridiculous sappy stories is going to change anything, you ought to think again."

"You're right," Han Solo agrees, shocking Kylo, and it isn't until he sees the hint of a smirk on the ghost's face that he knows he's been had, yet again. "I shouldn't have reminded you about Threepio. Bad move on my part. Who wants to join the Resistance with him hanging around? Tell you what, if you go back and you need to take out your anger on something, you can chop Goldenrod up.  I doubt anyone'll miss him. Too much."

He should cast his father out. Lash out mentally and send him stumbling back into the Force where he can only murmur, not taunt or smile or joke. He knows that. He's done it once before in anger, he's probably angry enough to do it again ... but he's not in peak condition, either, after the mental strain of today, and this time Obi-Wan, lurking in the ether, will be ready for him. If he fails, he couldn't take the embarrassment. So he has to find a way to make his father leave voluntarily. What are Han Solo's weak spots?

He doesn't have to wonder long.

“See, I made your mother a promise, kid,” Han tells him, a flicker of emotion in his voice too strong to name. “A promise that I would bring you home. I'm still intending to keep that promise.”

 _My mother._ He hasn't allowed himself to think of her that way in such a long time. He's spent so much time keeping those thoughts - not just his thoughts of her, but _her_ thoughts of _him_ , sent out across the galaxy on waves of love and grief – out of his head that he's managed to almost rid himself of her light. On the rare occasions when he does have to allow her to cross his mind, she is General Organa and nothing more. Even when Supreme Leader and Hux decided to destroy the Ileenium system, and he knew that she was there … yes, the face of someone his thoughts labeled _MOM_ had risen up in his mind's eye And yes, the realization that if those planets were destroyed, she too would be destroyed, had rent through him like a crack of lightning. And he had hoped to talk them out of it. But he hadn't stopped to analyze the reasons why. He hadn't needed to. It was a senseless slaughter, that was all. A waste. The Resistance could never hope to defeat the First Order for good. _Supreme Leader is too powerful._ It was needless. It would cause a disturbance in the Force, like the mighty wave of screams that had rushed through him when he watched the Hosnian system die. It had nothing to do with the General.

He doesn't ever let himself think about the fact that General Organa used to tell him bedtime stories about the Rebellion, or chase him around the house, catching him and tickling him until he shrieked. Much less the fact that he used to steal flowers out of the neighbor's greenhouse to make bouquets for her to see when she got home, tired, from work. Or how he used to try to braid her long, long hair, his clumsy fingers fumbling and tangling more than they did anything else, but she had borne it patiently, always told him he did a good job …

 _That wasn't me, that was …_ but this is pointless argument to have with himself, isn't it? His father is standing right in front of him and if he has a father, then he has a mother. Or he did have one. He doubts she wants him back now.

“Then you're an idiot,” he tells his father, frankly, bitterly, pushing his hands through his tumbled hair. “There is no home for me. She won't forgive me now.” He chews his bleeding bottom lip and then snarls the rest of his words. “She loved _you_ too much.”

“Does the thought of how much you've hurt her not bother you at all?” Han marvels, seeming truly disturbed by his son's depravity for the first time. He leans forward in his disgust, lip curling, as if eager to understand the thing he hates. Or maybe just eager to argue with it, like he argues with everything.

“The General is just as foolish as you are, and her archaic ideals will get her killed one day,” Kylo says.

Han is furious, pointing a threatening finger as though it will do any good now. “Don't you talk about your mother like that, boy!”

“Oh, I see,” Kylo sneers. “So _now_ you care about her.”

Astonishment flashes across the ghost's features. “ _Now_?” He shakes his head. “What are you saying, Ben? Do you think that there was ever a second I _didn't_ care about your mother? Didn't love her like crazy?”

“Considering the fact that you spent half your time fighting with her and half your time slamming the door and blasting off into hyperspace, you can forgive me for being a bit confused.”

“Hey, she started about half of those fights...”

“That doesn't give you the right to ...” Kylo closes his mouth hard and sudden. He fell right into his father's trap. He can't keep doing this.

“To what?” Han challenges. “Abandon my family? Oh I get it. Like father like son, huh?”

A shudder wracks Kylo Ren. “I'm _nothing_ like you.”

“Oh really? Kid, you get your powers and your temper from your mother, but almost everything else? You get from me.”

He feels like he's nothing but a pair of clenched fists and a wrenching heart. “Insults, really? At your age, you ought to be above that sort of thing.”

“Age?” Han snorts. “I'm dead, what's age? And you're one to talk. You're pushing thirty and still playing dress up.”

Kylo chooses to ignore that one, even though it actually stings a little.

“If you love her so much, then why aren't you with her right now instead of me?” he wants to know. It's not the first time that the question has crossed his mind, only the first time he's been reckless enough to voice it. Maybe if he makes his father feel guilty for abandoning his mother, he can finally get rid of Han Solo for good.

Or maybe he just wants to know the answer.

“Because ... I gave up on you,” Han Solo admits, unexpectedly. The face of the ghost is tinged with shame as he speaks. “And she never did. I spent years thinking there was no hope left for you ...”

“You were right.” Kylo's voice is not flat when he speaks, as much as he wishes he could stomp all the emotion out of it, he fails at that like he fails at everything. He's choking with it.

“No,” Han says, his voice as rich and blind with conviction as it was that day on the bridge. “I was _wrong_ , Ben.”

Tears itch and burn behind Kylo's eyes, clinging to his lashes as he leans his head forward, trying to hide the worst of his torment. How can this be happening? After weeks of being haunted, he still can't wrap his damaged mind around it. The idea that his father believes in his salvation _more_ after dying by his hand is incomprehensible; it cracks something in him. “You. Are. _Dead_.”

“What's your point, kid?”

“You … should … be … _gone_. I don't … understand … why you're not _gone._ ”

Han Solo's jaw tightens. “Maybe you find it easy to leave behind all the people you used to love. To throw them away like garbage when they aren't useful or convenient to you anymore. I don't."

“You … _you_ …” A single tear, like a drop of acid, rips its way down Kylo's cheek. His words all taste like blood but recklessly he rips himself apart and speaks them anyway. “You threw me away … a hundred times … before I was even ten years old. Every time I watched your ship take off I learned it again … just how little I meant to you. That I wasn't worth staying around for. I got the message, _Father._ ” Saying that word ... it costs him dearly. He raises his head, more to gulp for air than anything else, but it lets him see the dead man's reaction.

His father's chin quivers. All his earlier bravado is gone. He blinks and his expression clears a little. “I know I wasn't perfect,” Han Solo murmurs. “I never said I was. But Ben, you … I'm still your father and I still … I always lo-”

“As it turns out, I didn't need a father,” Kylo interrupts hastily, swiping the tears away with the back of his gloved hand. “And I certainly don't now.”

“Why? Because you've got _Snoke_?” Han Solo's voice is a flood of contempt and his lips press into a thin line as he gestures in the general direction of the audience chamber. “Because he's just so kind and understanding? He was _hurting_ you back there, Ben, and you … you were letting him.”

“Don't try to involve yourself in things that you don't understand,” Kylo Ren snaps, but his voice is a thin thread and it frays on the last word.

“I understand that he's using you and one day he'll throw you away just like you think I did. He'll throw you out like the twisted …. ruined … _wreck_ of a thing he's turning you into.” Han is furious but he's also sorrowful and the potent mixture is one that's all too familiar, and it strikes something in his son, jars something loose that's been cracking for a while now, and Kylo Ren shudders.

“He's been there my entire _life_ ,” he says so softly that he can barely hear himself. On some level, he realizes that he's whispering because he feels he's betraying his master, afraid that somehow he'll overhear, that he'll be punished for this. “In my dreams. In the dark. Talking in my head. Telling me the truths that you and my mother would never tell me. Telling me who I was, what I was capable of. Telling me that I was meant for greater things than you or she wanted for me. He was there and you _weren't._ He's in … he's in my earliest memories.”

A shadow passes across his father's face: disgust and fear and sadness and anger, all coalescing into that burning look, that stubborn, fiery face that stirs up memories he can't deny. His father has made up his mind about something, and now that he's dead, nothing can stand in his way. Few things ever could.

“I don't accept that,” Han Solo says roughly. “You're getting a new one.”

Kylo blinks up at his father's ghost. “A new what?”

“A new earliest memory.” Han crouches down until he's at eye level with his son.

“And how do you propose to do that?” Kylo asks sullenly, curiosity getting the better of him because he's tired, he's just so _tired_ of fighting ghosts. Of fighting himself. Of fighting at all.

There's a flicker of doubt in his father's eyes but it vanishes almost instantly and is replaced by a gleam of inspiration. “Hey old man,” he calls out. “Can you come and give me a hand with this?”

Obi-Wan reappears. “I believe I can assist you in this matter, Han,” he says thoughtfully, “but if it is to work, then your son must be willing.”

They both look at him, the dead men, and he looks up at them and recklessly, selfishly, falls in line with their plan. What can it possibly hurt? He's already broken so much of himself. There's so much darkness in him that there's no going back anyway.

And he has a plan.

“I'll make a deal with the two of you. If I do this,” he says, “then you have to do something for me.”

His father and the man he was named for exchange glances.

“What is that, Ben?” Obi-Wan asks with cautious curiosity.

“You have to leave,” he tells them sharply, “at least for a few days. At least while I'm preparing for my trials. I can't ... I _won't_ have you in my head, messing with my focus. But I'll let you in now. For this. Just this.”

He waits, holding his breath caged in his chest. They'll think it will be worth it. They'll think whatever memory they plant inside him will fester and tear cracks in him that Light can seep in through. And then they'll leave him alone and watch from a distance as they see how wrong they are.

“Done,” says Han Solo, decisively.

Relief and something like disappointment washes over Kylo Ren. Leaving him feeling limp and weaker than ever before. _Hold on. You'll be rid of them soon enough._

“Do it then,” he murmurs, closing his eyes. “I don't care anymore.”

 _Terrible liar,_ Obi-Wan whispers in his mind. And before he can even attempt to refute that, his father is there too. Kylo doesn't have eyes of his own anymore; he's seeing through his father's eyes instead, and even though he's been inside so many other minds before, this is different. He falls in, off balance, but then things settle down. No fighting, no effort. It doesn't feel unnatural. He's been here before.

Now he's experiencing it twice over: feeling his father's feelings, and his own … a memory waking up that should been impossible to recover.

He looks down at himself, because he knows it must be himself. A bundle of blue clothes and black hair, sleeping like a rock against the chest of a man wearing a white shirt and a black vest. A small, chubby fist clings to the fabric of that vest. Strong hands hold him close and safe as the rhythm of his father's breathing keeps him slumbering on, at peace. Even though he's sleeping, in the memory, the boy who is now a man can still somehow feel it: the feeling of the chest and stomach rising and falling beneath him, the warmth of the body supporting his. The strength of it. The presence, the _there_ -ness. There isn't a spark of doubt or fear in that sleeping child.  He knows that the man holding him will always be there. Will always be _his._

One of the man's hands rises to smooth the ruffled dark curls out of the child's face. The hand lingers when the smoothing is done, fingertips tracing an absentminded pattern he's traced many times before.

Somewhere in the depths of his sleep, the little boy can hear his father's heartbeat, the distant rhythm of it a familiar and soothing lullaby.

It soothes him because he knows it that will never stop.

There's a faint sound of footsteps, coming closer, and the man looks up. It's not normally disorienting, to see through someone else's eyes. But there is his mother, walking into the room, her long hair falling loose in soft brown waves around her shoulders and down her back. The sight of her, the surge of adoration he feels, jolts him. The look on her face is serious at first, and exhausted, but when she sees her husband and son, her brown eyes warm and her lips curve in the sweetest of smiles.

"He's finally asleep?" she whispers, approaching with slow footsteps so as to make less noise. The beloved sound of his mother's voice is added to the inner symphony of the boy's sleep.

"Out like a light," Han says in a low voice, and the murmur of it reverberates through the boy. "He wore himself out trying to climb Chewie."

Leia winces as she sits down on the sofa next to the two of them. "Poor Chewie." She curls up against her husband's side, and he turns his head to kiss her cheek.

"You kidding? He might howl and whine, but if a day went by that Ben didn't torture him mercilessly, he wouldn't know what to do with himself."

"He and I and you have that in common," Leia says with wry humor. 

"Oh ... I almost forgot.  He broke that vase you like," Han says sheepishly. 

Leia frowns.  "The yellow one?" 

"Yep." 

"I've always hated that vase." 

Han pouts.  "I _bought_ you that vase!"

Leia levels him with a skeptical look.  "And I told you I hated it at the time, but you didn't listen."  

Han sighs.  "It was kind of ugly, wasn't it?" 

"Hideous.  How did he break it?" 

"Beats me.  One second he was drawing on the walls on the opposite side of the room, next thing I know the vase is smashed on the floor.  Ben looked as surprised as I was, the little monster." His voice is absurdly fond as he describes his son's wrongdoings, and he adjusts his hold on the baby, cradling him more securely. 

"He's a handful," Leia remarks with equal affection. 

"Our little problem child," Han agrees.

The small fist tightens in the fabric of his vest, dimpled fingers flexing, and the child's mouth opens in a sigh. His parents watch him, comically frozen in the fear that he'll wake and cry, but he lapses back into rest a moment later, and they relax in unison.

"Two years old." Leia is contemplative, observing the minute changes on the face of the baby. "How did that happen? _When_ did that happen?"

Han is quiet for a long time. "I don't know," he answers finally. "It feels like yesterday that he was born and all he did was sleep and cry. Now he's talking nonstop, he's getting into everything ... he's more fun now, but … sometimes I just want to slow it down, you know?"

"I do know," Leia murmurs, laying her cheek on his shoulder. "It just feels like, no matter how much time we have with him ..."

"...it'll never be enough," Han finishes.

"Mm hmm." Leia is quiet. Quiet for so long that the conversation seems to be over. Han is almost asleep when his wife speaks again.

"Han?"

"Huh?"

"Do you think that Ben knows?"

"Knows what?"

Leia's dark eyes are troubled. She looks far away, serious again, like she's worried about something Han can't see. "How much we love him."

Through the memory, he can feel his father startle. This isn't like Leia; she feels deeply and fiercely, yes, but she rarely voices it, hardly ever makes herself vulnerable. She always seems so _sure_.

But now, he's the one who's certain.

"Of course he does," Han says firmly. "He knows."

Leia nods, but that faraway look remains in her eyes, a line between her brows as she continues to fret, to fight unseen enemies in her head.

"Hey, princess," Han says, in a husky voice that always brings her back to reality. "If you're worried about it, maybe we should tell him again."

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, but when they do, the expression on Leia's face lightens and she seems reassured. Sparing a smile for her husband, she leans down, her lips close to the little boy's ear.

"I love you, Ben," she whispers.

He hears her. He won't remember it, won't think about it again, but he hears her, and he knows.

His father's lips brush the top of his head. "Love you like crazy, kid," he murmurs.

And Ben hears that too.

He knows.

The memory fades away and he finds himself, instinctively, struggling to remain within it: the warmth of it, the comfort, the safety. He fights to stay small and sleeping in his father's arms, protected and loved, no battles to fight, nothing to prove, just the song of Han Solo's heartbeat under his cheek. But he can't. It was a memory, not even his own memory, and now it's over. It was over two decades ago. That happy family is gone. And he's left with nothing but a hollow place in his heart and tears drying on his cheeks and blood drying on his mouth.

His ghosts are gone too.

He's alone.

Just like he wanted.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Sorry it took so long for this chapter; life's been crazy, and this one was hard to write. I'm going to try to get chapter five up in a more timely manner. As always, comments and feedback are incredibly helpful and appreciated more than I can say. Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kylo Ren has only one advantage left against this flood of sentiment: not all of the memories are sweet ones.

For the next three days, Kylo Ren exists in a state of animal fear. Not knowing when the trials will begin, when the threat will come, he has to be on guard at every moment, and it's beyond exhausting. When he isn't practicing his forms or hacking through every training droid in the fitness center, he focuses on his meditation, the old standby for stopping the tattered pieces of himself from flying apart, trying to find any balance that he can.

 

 _Trying_ being the operative word. It's too quiet around him now. He finds, much to his disgust, that he has grown accustomed to the murmur of the ghosts inside his mind during the night, adjusted to their irritating presence hounding him during the day. He realizes too that part of him had fully expected his father and Obi-Wan to play dirty, to return whenever they wanted, to renege on the deal they made. But just as he requested, they remain silent.

 

He finds he can hate them for that, too. Easily.

 

The ghosts may be gone, but his mind is still a haunted, tortured place. He has no appetite, and he can't sleep. He exists in two places: the training facility and his quarters. He takes his tasteless, unwanted meals alone, and sits in darkness and silence, staring at the newly repaired walls. There is nothing but the silence, and he wraps it around himself like a cloak. Apart from a scathing lecture from Hux about how he can't just keep vandalizing every room in the base, dammit, doesn't he understand how much it _costs_ the Order to _repair_ these things, and _one of these days you'll hit a plasma coil somewhere and blow us all to kingdom come, Ren, you fool,_ none of the few people he sees in passing speak to him at all. They know to leave him alone. Even Hux, after having his air supply cut off for a few seconds, knows better now. It's absolutely certain that Hux complained to Snoke about the assault, but Kylo Ren doesn't hear about it.

 

He hears _nothing_ from the Supreme Leader, doesn't feel so much as a flicker in the Force. His master shuts him out, ignores him thoroughly, and doesn't start the trials, and makes him wait and wait and wait.

 

It's so predictable, this unpredictability; a treacherous road that Kylo Ren has been walking down as long as he can remember. It has all been leading up to this: this final set of challenges, this series of trials that will refine him at last into the purity of darkness. Of course now that the moment is so near, so close that he can taste it, his master will make him sweat for it. This is the way it has always been, since he was fifteen years old: Kylo Ren balancing on the knife's edge of his master's approval, knowing that one wrong step could send him crashing down into an abyss.

 

This is how his master wants him: always on the edge, always scrambling and shuddering to prove himself.

 

He tells himself it's no more than he deserves, that it's _good_ for him. Every hurt, every test, every mind game is making him better, stronger, truer. Honing him into a warrior far mightier than the galaxy has seen the likes of before, or ever will again. That is what he tells himself. That his worth has yet to be determined. That his true character has yet to be revealed.

 

But this thought is actually terrifying.

 

At the end of the third day, he returns from his exercises, weary and irritable, looking around at his quarters and seeing them for the prison they are. He might as well be sleeping on some hard bunk on the detention level for all the comfort this room affords. The only luxury he ever allows himself is solitude, and he could have that just as easily in a cell. His grandfather's mask still sits on the table, but he hasn't spoken to it or even looked directly at it since Obi-Wan told him he was keeping his grandfather away. He said that he didn't believe that, but part of him must, because his throat tightens and his eyes sting whenever he thinks of it. The distorted, melted mouth, the misshapen holes of the eyes …. it reminds him too much of Supreme Leader, somehow. He's afraid of his grandfather now, like he's afraid of everything. There is so much fear in him, an everlasting spring of it from which he has been drinking all his life, but his master always told him that fear is natural. That he does not need to suppress his fear, does not need to face it or cure it, but to use it, to _act_ on it. And for the past fifteen years of his life, that's exactly what he's done.

 

The thing is, Kylo Ren doesn't _want_ to be afraid anymore. He wants to be brave and he wants to be strong and he wants to feel secure in something, in _anything._ He wants to feel like a real person, not a scattered assortment of salvaged artifacts and arcane lore and black clothes and other people's blood.

 

And he knows that the only way he will ever feel whole is to continue on this path he's chosen. He has lost and sacrificed too much to it to be able to even consider turning back now. And if there's even a tiny sliver of guilt inside of him for giving Han Solo and Obi-Wan Kenobi false hope that he might change his mind, well … that's simply irrational. It's their own fault. He isn't responsible for their blindness, their sentimentality, their warped and twisted values that tell them how _wrong_ he is and how _right_ they are.

 

_But they were right about one thing …_

 

 _No._ He shakes his head fiercely and peels off his gloves, tossing them across the room. His boots go next, the rest of his armor and most of his clothing following. As he sheds his clothes, he imagines himself shedding his fears as well, his insecurities, his failings, every shred of feeble light that clings to him. But when he's stripped to his pants, it doesn't escape him that it's a pool of darkness he's left on the floor, not light.

 

It's cold in his quarters, and a slight shudder runs through him, but, stubborn, he doesn't move to adjust the temperature. He's going to be a master of the Dark Side in his own right, possibly in a matter of days; he can't let something as inconsequential as chill air bother him. He just wraps his arms around himself as he paces around the room, focusing on anything but the cold, anything but the fear. But the problem is, there's nothing else to focus on. By his own choice, his life is a black void, an endless stretch of space without even any stars in it. Anything beautiful, anything comforting, anything soft he rid himself of years ago.

 

He lifts his hands and runs his fingers restlessly through his hair, closing his eyes, trying to breathe deeply, to calm down and steady his always-racing heartbeat. But this doesn't help him either, because his own touch isn't soothing enough, he starts imagining someone else is touching his hair. Kind hands, gentle, warm. Of course, he soon figures out that this isn't a fantasy, and the hands don't belong to a stranger. They're his mother's hands, holding him close, smoothing her fingers through his hair and rocking him back and forth. Comforting him. It's a memory.

 

_Not another one. Not now._

 

 _It's not my fault,_ he thinks furiously, dropping his hands to his sides, and sitting heavily on the cold floor, cross-legged. None of it is his fault. The weakness, the wavering that he feels can be blamed on Solo and Kenobi and their constant emotional assaults. This is their doing. Kylo Ren's oh-so-brilliant plan, to rid himself of the ghosts in exchange for accepting a memory, didn't work out like he thought it would. In fact, it seems to have backfired horribly. The so-called gift of his father's memory, his _own_ long-buried memory, has torn a hole in his consciousness, allowing more and more repressed, forgotten images to come spilling through. He cannot stop the flood of remembrance.

 

Worse, and most shamefully, he doesn't really want to.

 

Admitting what he _does_ want rips yet another hole in him, but he's torn and frayed at this point, and so restless and impulsive that it's impossible to stop from pulling at the loose threads and sending the truth spilling out.

 

He wants his family.

 

He wants it all back _…_ the way it felt to belong to them, to be theirs, to have a home. He can't believe how close and real it all suddenly seems: he's pushed it all away, kept it buried beneath layers of hurt and darkness, for so long. He's been holding his longing for his family back so hard that once he let in a single sliver of it, his defenses broke and now he's drowning in, choking on it. He fights against his craving for his family like someone might fight a craving for death-sticks. He's wracked with it, can barely breathe. When he's training, when he's working his body to its limits, he can hold the memories at bay. But he cannot hold them at bay now.

 

Sitting there on the floor, he remembers Uncle Luke taking for him a ride in his x-wing, not even laughing at him when he got space-sick. Remembers Threepio teaching him how to say “I didn't do it” in sixty different languages and Artoo interrupted with unhelpful beeps. Chewie brushing his hair. Uncle Lando showing him card tricks and winking mysteriously when asked to reveal how the trick was done. Ben had figured it out eventually, and then Uncle Lando had been the one astounded and impressed. (Or he had pretended pretty well). He remembers the first time he ever saw Obi-Wan in his dreams: how in awe he was of the ghost, the famous, heroic Jedi he was named for, who spoke to him with such care and kindness.

 

And of course, he remembers his mom and dad.

 

They weren't always fighting. There was nothing like the way Dad's eyes lit up when Mom walked into the room, and there was nothing like Mom's laugh when she finally stopped pretending to think Dad's jokes weren't funny. They were always kissing each other, too. It was gross. But Ben just averted his eyes and accepted this weird adult thing. His mom and dad loved each other, he knew that. And they loved him.

 

And he had loved them. He knew that too. It takes nothing at all for him to recall exactly the feeling of it: a sweet, sure ache that takes up all the room in his fractured heart. Love, back then, meant certainty. Safety. Shelter. Sweetness. All the things he lacks now.

 

_**Stop this.** _ _Luke Skywalker is an enemy of the First Order, a threat to the entire galaxy. C-3P0 and R2-D2 are nothing but pieces of metal and wire. Chewbacca hates you. Lando Calrissian … I don't even know if he's alive. Your mother doesn't want you back, and you_ _**killed** _ _your father. Don't you dare make that sacrifice for nothing._

 

He must be harsh with himself. That's the only way the lesson will stick. He breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, shuddering as he knows what he must do, even though part of him flinches at the thought of doing it.

 

Kylo Ren has only one advantage left against this flood of sentiment: not all of the memories are sweet ones.

 

He forces himself to dredge up all the bitter things he can find, and there are a lot of bitter things to choose from. He wraps his arms around himself and holds until it hurts and he clings to the pain, telling himself: _This is who your mother and father really were. This is what they really thought of you. This is what the true story is._

 

There's one in particular. It's one he's often returned to over the years, when the bitterness threatened to abandon and leave him empty, without power or motivation. Like anything handled too often, the memory has been worn smooth in his mind: some of the finer details are missing, but he intimately knows the shape of it, the weight. Knows it like the taste of blood in his mouth.

 

He was seven years old. His mother had left for a Senate meeting before he'd woken up that morning, but, unlike the past several mornings, he was overjoyed to discover that he wasn't being left in Threepio's care. His dad was back, _finally_ , sitting at the table eating breakfast, waiting for Ben to wake up.

 

All the pieces of Ben's small world fell back into place when he saw Han Solo. He'd run and hurled himself like a torpedo into his lap, and his dad had groaned, exaggerating the pain, and scooped Ben up and hugged him, grinning.

 

It hurts to remember how happy he was that morning. It hurts so _much._

 

 _Good,_ Kylo Ren snarls, hugging himself harder and jabbing his fingernails into the muscles of his upper arms. _Let it hurt. Let the pain remind you._

 

It turned out that his dad had just gotten in that morning, that he was tired from flying all night, and had a headache, and didn't want to help Ben build a Jedi temple out of blocks. He just wanted to lie down on the couch with his hand over his eyes, which was boring, and when Ben wouldn't stop tugging at his sleeve, wouldn't stop jabbering in his ear, and wouldn't stop building block temples only to knock them violently down, he got annoyed. And annoyance turned to anger, and anger turned to a shout.

 

Nearly twenty-three years after the fact, Ben can't remember what it was his father said, exactly ... but it wasn't the words that mattered. It was just the sound of it, how it was more than a sound. How it hurt him more than a slap would have. How it shocked him to his bones and made heat flare up in his cheeks. He thought of how he'd spent the past five days staring up at the sky, watching for signs of the Falcon, constantly asking his mother "when will Dad be back?" And now that Han Solo was back, he didn't even seem to want Ben around at all.

 

The feeling is one that has lingered. It is a feeling of being unwanted, and he feels it so strongly that for a moment he _is_ seven years old again, with tears half-formed in his eyes and his father's raised voice ringing in his ears.

 

His father had wounded him. And Ben's instinct, when wounded, has always been to wound back. So he sucked in his breath and shouted right back, something he'd picked up from eavesdropping on adult conversations. He doesn't remember what he said either, but it must have been filthy, because his father sat bolt upright, his jaw dropping in utter astonishment. When he recovered from his shock, he ordered Ben to go to his room, banishing him from the only place in the world that he wanted to be: his side. Ben refused to go. When he refused to budge, his father had approached him with the intent to pick him up and march him to his room.

 

But he didn't make it there. At the urging of some dark impulse inside him, Ben pushed back with the only weapon at his disposal.

 

He used the Force.

 

Strange now, after every other brutal thing he's done, how it shames him to remember this one incident. Uncle Luke and Mom had always told him, very seriously, how the Force ought to be used. That it was never to be used as an attack, only as defense, and not against someone who was unarmed, and on and on and on. Not to destroy things, but to protect them. Apparently, even now, Kylo Ren is still being weakened by Luke Skywalker's teachings. He's _ashamed_ to remember that he had shoved his father with the Force, sent him staggering back until he bumped into the nearest wall.

 

The shame is drowned out by the rest of it. How his father had looked at him. Not with anger anymore but with … fear.

 

 _My dad was_ afraid _of me._

 

Han Solo didn't yell anymore. Instead he peeled himself slowly away from the wall, never taking his eyes off his son. He straightened his shirt and ran a hand through his rumpled hair. Cleared his throat.

 

“Go to your room, Ben,” he said very, very quietly, stressing every single word. “I'll tell you when you can come out again.”

 

And, feeling shrunken and shaken inside by what he'd done, by the fact that his father was even _capable_ of being hurt, much less by him, Ben had obeyed.

 

It felt like a million years passed before his father came to fetch him. There was no easy smile on Han Solo's face, no warmth in his eyes as he edged into the room, keeping a distance between himself and Ben. "You ready to behave now?" his father asked him gruffly, looking at the wall instead of his son.

 

Ben nodded, a lump in his throat. He couldn't understand why he'd done what he did earlier and he couldn't understand why he felt so terrible. He didn't understand anything.

 

"Anything you wanna say to me, kid?"

 

He swallowed hard, looking up at his father. The expression Han Solo wore was stern, forbidding. But there was a look in his hazel eyes that Ben recognized

because he felt it too. It was pain. And it was his dad who had told him that, when you hurt someone, even if you didn't mean to do it, you had to apologize.

 

"I'm sorry, Dad," Ben whispered. He wasn't small for his age, but he still looked up at his father from what seemed like an unbreachable distance. He reached for his father's hand, clinging to warm, rough, but unresponsive fingers. "I'm really sorry." His voice was small, but he was telling the truth.

 

There was silence. For a moment, he was completely terrified that it would not be enough. That he had done something so bad that he had lost his dad forever.

 

But then the moment passed, and he it knew it was okay. His father's hand closed around his, giving his fingers a squeeze, and the stony expression on Han Solo's face broke into something softer, something gentler.

 

"Okay, Ben," his father said, and patted his hair. "It's okay."

 

But it wasn't. Not really.

 

The rest of the day had been pleasant enough. Mom was out working late, and even though Ben wished she had been around, it was a nice treat to have his father tuck him in and tell him a story neither Mom nor Threepio probably would have approved of, about a fight he got in once with a bounty hunter in a cantina. It was a good story. Then his dad kissed his forehead and left him to sleep.

 

He woke up not long after, to the sound of his parents' voices.

 

It wasn't the first time they'd woken him up with their arguing. This time, they weren't even being that loud, he'd just been sleeping restlessly. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but he could tell that they weren't getting along. He'd been told that eavesdropping was wrong, but he heard his name. That made it his business and besides, he told himself, _if I go out there, they'll stop fighting and be nice again._ They really did try not to argue in front of him. So he crawled out of bed, padding barefoot across the cold floor, out of his room and toward the kitchen area, where the sound of his parents' voices were coming from.

 

He must have been very quiet, because they didn't notice him as he appeared in the doorway.

 

"... doesn't matter if he's sorry," Han was saying, leaning forward across the table. He was scowling, his hair disheveled, shadows under his eyes. "That isn't the point. Are you not hearing what I'm telling you, Leia? Your son ... used the Force ... to push me into a wall!"

 

"He's your son too," said Leia hotly, pacing the room with her hands curled into fists. She was still wearing her Senate clothes, her hair all done up on top of her head. She must have only just gotten back; the first thing his mom did when she got home was take her hair down. "Don't blame this all on me ..."

 

"I wasn't blaming you! When did I say I was blaming _you_? The kid's old enough to be held responsible for his own actions." Ben flinched at the censure in his father's tone.

 

Leia shook her head as she paced ever faster. "This isn't right. I know that he can be … emotional … sometimes, but I just can't believe that Ben would actually ..."

 

"Believe it, sweetheart," Han said heavily, "I got the bruises to prove it."

 

 _Bruises?_ He'd pushed his father that hard? Ben's heart went tight with horror, and he pressed himself back out of the doorway, into the shadows.

 

"He's never done anything like this before," Leia said staunchly, but there was pain in her voice. Ben knew his mother's moods well; he could feel the doubt, the weakness in her. The _fear._ "Han, tomorrow I'll talk to him. I know he won't do this again."

 

"I hope you're right, princess," Han muttered. "Because I really don't know how to handle something like this."

 

"He's not something that needs to be 'handled', Han," Leia snapped, the fire back in her voice. "He's not a … a broken hyperdrive, he's a person. He just … has a power, and ..."

 

"... and he needs to be taught how to use it," Han finished, weary. “I know, I know.”

 

"And I _am_ teaching him," said Leia, firmly.

 

"I know, Leia, but maybe …. maybe he could use another teacher."

 

There was a long silence. When Leia spoke, she didn't sound sharp or certain anymore. She just sounded sad, _lost._ It scared Ben, unsettled him, to hear his mother sound that way. She was the strongest person he knew and she was coming undone because of _him._ It was all wrong.

 

"Not yet,” she was saying. “I'm not ready for that. _He's_ not ready for that, Han. He's only a little boy. If a day comes when I feel it's necessary to send him to Luke, I will. But not yet, Han. I can't ... I can't lose him."

 

His father sighed. "I don't wanna lose him either, Leia, but if we can't do this right ..."

 

"We can," Leia hastened to assure him. "We _are._ Just a little more patience, with ourselves, with each other, and with him. Just a little more patience and time and ..."

 

"Time," Han interrupted awkwardly. "That's part of the problem, I guess, isn't it? The timing. We just weren't … we just weren't ready for him."

 

_What does that mean?_

 

"Maybe not," Leia answered. “And maybe we would never have been ready. I don't know that anyone's ever _really_ ready to be parents.”

 

"Well technically, no one's ever _really_ ready to go across the galaxy on a starship, but that doesn't mean you leave the spaceport without a motivator …”

 

His mother was clearly exasperated. “What are you trying to say, Han?”

 

“All I'm saying is, if we'd waited just a couple years ..."

 

"If we had," Leia points out irritably, "we would have an entirely different child. We wouldn't have Ben."

 

Han sighed. "Yeah. I wasn't thinking. You're right."

 

Silence fell, and Ben didn't stay to hear if it was ever broken.

 

 **Go back to bed,** a voice in his head told him. And he did, because he was frightened, and confused, and hurt, and he didn't even know _why_. Alone in his room, in the darkness, he crawled beneath his blanket and wrapped his arms around himself. Before he knew it, he was crying, tears slipping sticky down his cheeks, his chest and throat aching with the effort of muffling his sobs so his mom and dad wouldn't hear.

 

**Why are you crying, child?**

 

He didn't yet have a name for the voice that sometimes spoke inside his mind. He had no idea that he one day call it master. He trusted it because it always spoke up at the moments when he felt most unsure, most alone. Most desperate for someone, anyone, to talk to.

 

_My mom and dad are mad at me. I think I did something really bad._

 

**Tell me, child.**

 

The voice, as always, was patient, like it had all the time in the world, none of the concerns or worries or obligations or shortcomings of his parents. It did not push him or hurry him along or tease. It took him seriously.

 

Ben told the voice everything, because it was such a relief to have someone to pour this out on, he didn't hold back or hesitate. He couldn't. He told the voice about his father's impatience and the yelling and using the Force wrong, and the mysterious words his parents said, about not being ready for him. About how they should have had another child instead.

 

 **I see.** The voice was thoughtful, the voice was wise. The voice had an explanation for everything. **It seems, child, that your mother and father see you as a mistake.**

 

Ben's mind shuddered away from the thought. _A mistake?_ He was all fear now. The voice had always told him the truth … but he did not always like it.

 

**An unintended consequence of some … impulsive actions. It seems that your parents feel their lives might have been easier, simpler, better perhaps, if you simply had not been born.**

 

The words wrapped themselves around Ben's heart and tightened like a fist. _But ... that can't be true ... my mom and dad love me. They tell me all the time._

 

**I do not doubt they love you, child. Or believe that they do. But this thing called love ... it only extends so far. Love is a frail thing, fragile as the light given off by a single star. Even the brightest stars burn out, eventually. So does this thing that humans call love. It is only a feeling, and feelings as light does. Darkness, though … darkness always remains, when everything else in the galaxy is spent. There will always be darkness, child, and in the darkness, only the power of the Force is real.**

 

Ben shook his head as shame stirred up his insides. _I don't want to think about the Force._

 

**Why do you resist, child?**

 

 _I'm bad at using the Force. I use it wrong. I break things, I hurt people. I don't_ want _to hurt people._

 

The voice was reassuring, soothing. **Don't fret about that, child. The only ones who can be hurt by your power are the ones too weak to understand it.**

 

But his father wasn't weak. His father was a hero and one of the strongest people in the galaxy, and if Ben could hurt his dad with the Force then he could hurt anyone, anytime, and that was a paralyzing, terrible thought.

 

 _Just because people are weak doesn't mean they should be hurt,_ he piped up. It felt wrong to talk back to the voice, like breaking a rule, but he would do a wrong thing if it meant defending his dad. _The weak_ _should be protected. Uncle Luke told me that._

 

**Your uncle is a powerful Jedi, but there are things, many thing, about the nature of the Force that even he does not understand. He will not understand you. You are going to be more powerful than he ever was, and he will fear you. Just as your father fears you. Just as your mother fears you.**

 

Ben recoiled, his own suspicions confirmed. _But_ _I don't_ want _them to be afraid of me._

 

**In time you learn the value of fear. Both their fear of you, and yours of them.**

 

_But I …_

 

**Enough. You have much to learn, child. Think on what I have said. We will speak again.**

 

The voice was gone, and there was a void inside his mind, an unbearable emptiness. On it, dark words had already begun to write themselves, indelible.

 

The next day, his mother had not gone to work; she had stayed home and they had all eaten breakfast together, the three of them, and Chewie showed up halfway through and ate too. It should have been nice, but it wasn't, because now Ben could feel the tension hanging over everything, weighing every glance, every motion down with hidden meanings that he was too small to decipher. He was very, very careful that morning. He didn't laugh or talk too loudly. He said _please_ and _thank you_ until they didn't even sound like words anymore. He helped his dad clear the dishes, and he didn't complain once. When his dad said that he and Chewie were going to go work on the Falcon, Ben bit his lip to keep from begging to go along.

 

If his parents really did see him as a burden, he didn't want to prove them right.

 

So he stayed with Mom instead and she sat down with him for a long talk, just as she said she would. Ben listened, but did not speak. He took in his mother's words and filed them away and nodded his head. He tried to reconcile what she told him with what the voice, who was always right, had told him. He said that he understood what she saying, that he believed her and would obey her.

 

But for the first time in his life, he _doubted_ her. And because of that doubt, because of the inescapable idea that he was making his parents suffer, he didn't tell her about what he had overheard. About what the voice had told him. He didn't ask for her help. And he wonders now, what would have happened, how things would have been different if he had. If he had walked into the kitchen that night, if he had never heard his father say what he said about not being ready for him, if he had never heard the tremors of fear in both his parents' voices when they talked about him, if he had told his mother what he was afraid of ... would it still have happened just this way?Would he still have done the same things, walked down the same dark path?

 

 _Of course it would have happened!_ he shouts at himself, making himself cringe with the intensity of his own fury, his own self-hatred. _This was your destiny, and your mother and father could never have saved you from it. You sniveling coward, you mewling, pathetic thing, why are you still trying to run back to some broken home that doesn't exist anymore, when all the power of the Force is right in front of you?_

 

The Force … yes. The Force is all that he has left. There is no home and there is no hope. He himself has made sure of that. He severed all his ties, he showed no mercy, and still he's bound to them, to the dreams of how things used to be. He remembers looking up at his mother's face that day, so strong, so kind, and feeling her kiss on his brow, the warmth and assurance of her promise: _I'm going to help you, Ben._ And he knows that she tried.

 

He also knows that she failed.

 

Three years later, his parents left him with Uncle Luke. He really had been a burden, all along, too heavy for them to bear. Now he sinks under the weight of that knowledge, and hears again what he used to hear every night after they left him, when he struggled to fall asleep without his mom and dad in the next room.

 

_You are all alone in this._

 

_No one is coming to save you, Ben Solo._

 

Kylo Ren falls out of his own mind and back into his grown-up body with a half-strangled cry. He's flat on his back in the middle of the floor, the dampness of tears on his face. He can see things now, how helpless and small he was back then. He had no idea he could be strong until Supreme Leader spoke into his mind and showed him how.

 

But it's strange, that everything Snoke told him made him feel wretched, miserable, and worthless. Strange how, with everything he's been working for almost within his grasp, he feels worse, emptier, more broken, than he ever has in his life.

 

 _He showed me the truth,_ he tells himself. _The truth about the world, about the galaxy, about the Force. About my family. How right they were to be afraid of their little monster, their little problem child, their little_ _ **mistake.**_

 

He couldn't fully grasp the implications of that at seven, and even then, it had cut right into his soul. Now he has at least a purely academic knowledge of what it means. His parents had never said, _let's have a baby._ They didn't choose him. They didn't ask for him. They didn't **want** him. They just did what led up to that and he arrived and ruined everything. He didn't have to lift a finger to hurt people. All he had to do was exist.

 

This should not bother him. He should be delighted by his capacity for destruction. He's weak. He really is. _Your father doesn't think you are ..._ but then, his father has been wrong before, hasn't he? Very wrong.

 

_Stop thinking about him. Stop thinking about **any** of them. They betrayed and abandoned _ **you,** _not the other way around. Cut them out of your heart, Kylo Ren, once and for all!_

 

He's desperate, longing for, needing an end to this torment. Kylo cuts deep into his own mind. Ignores the warmth and sweet things that part of him cries out to linger in. He submerges himself in the sound of his father shouting and his mother leaving and his uncle lecturing and the other padawans avoiding him and no one ever, _ever_ understanding him. No one ever looking into his eyes and liking what they saw there. Not even himself. He drowns himself in blood and pain and screams and torture. He floods himself with anger and fear and a sorrow so cold and sharp it bites through him like a blade. He sees the faces of everyone he's ever killed. He sees his father.

 

Sees a hand outstretched, lips parting, forming words that he doesn't need to hear in order to understand.

 

_Come home. We miss you._

 

He feels the ghost of the tears on his own face and he sees his own hand rising, but there's no weapon this time, just his shaking fingers. He imagines himself reaching back for his father, imagines letting the strong, calloused hand wrap around his gloved one. Imagines holding onto something real and solid and sure and feeling truly safe for the first time in twenty years, because he knows that Han Solo will never let go of him again. He imagines that instead of hearing his mother's soul cry out across the galaxy with grief and horror, he feels it settle softly into place instead, her heart skipping a beat with joy, and his lips mirroring the smile he knows that she, wherever she is, is wearing. He sees himself standing with his father and there's no lightsaber between them, no red glow and no flying sparks; when they close the distance there's no blood and no burning, just an embrace so strong and sure, it almost makes up for all those years of never being touched, never being held …

 

Kylo Ren recoils, grabbing his face, hitting his knees, howling as if he's been burned in his skin by the mere fantasy.

 

He cannot bear it. He cannot bear to think about how easy it would have been to make a different choice in that moment. He doesn't _have_ that moment anymore. He let his last chance at home slip out of his hands and now they're empty. That was the choice he made and he must he must he must stand by it because if he doesn't then he is doomed and there are only so many mistakes that Supreme Leader will allow and he has already failed too many times recently, he has to be better he has to be stronger or the pain will just get worse and worse and _worse_ but that's the key isn't it?

 

Pain.

 

He will never be free of it, so he turns to it instead, letting the red glow of rage suffuse him with an illusory warmth. He takes his empty hands and makes fists of them and hits himself as hard as he can, every part of himself that he can reach. He punches until purple blooms on the paleness of his skin. When that is not enough, he scrambles to his feet, finds the nearest wall and hurls himself against it, an animal in a cage of its own making. The drip of blood is the only warmth he knows. Madness, rage, a mind torn apart from the inside.

 

He falls down, unable to stand anymore, and curls into a ball on the floor. Numbness quickly gives way to aching. Even the gift of pain has abandoned him this time; he's regressed too far, become too much the child he used to be, so that now all he feels is agony. There is no power and somehow worse, there are no ghosts to lecture him, or cajole him, or even taunt him.

 

He wants Obi-Wan's obnoxious platitudes. He wants his father's quips.

 

And he has no one but himself to blame for the fact that he's alone.

 

His breathless pants give way to a soft keening sound, and he rocks himself, arms locked tight around his battered body, until sleep grudgingly embraces him.

 

When he sleeps, tonight he dreams.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kicked my ass. The next one is going to be a little bit softer, aaaannnnnddddd ... it will be up TOMORROW. Thank you all so much for your comments. Your suffering brings me great joy! All jokes aside, I love you all. Thank you for sticking around for Kylo's emotional breakdowns. I promise it all be worth it <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing hurts right now.

It's been such a long time since his dreams were anything but nightmares. He's not quite ready to trust this one yet, but there's something … something about this place ...

 

He's standing on the edge of a vast lake, crystalline and perfect, its blue expanse dotted with small green islands. The surface perfectly mirrors the sky, white clouds drifting soft and sleepy across the endless blue. At his back are rolling fields of vibrant green, speckled with clusters of tall purple flowers delicate as lace. Everything here seems larger, grander, more alive.

 

He realizes then that he's seeing the world from a much lower vantage point than he's used to. In his dream, he isn't tall anymore, no longer grown. He's still shirtless and barefoot, but when he looks down at his stomach, he finds his skin unmarred by old wounds. When he raises his hands to his face, he doesn't find a trace of stubble … or any sign at all of a long, jagged scar. He's a child now, and he's been wiped clean.

 

And he's not alone.

 

Another boy, a little shorter than he, is watching him from a few feet away. The boy's eyes are narrow and bright blue in a dusty, freckled face. Sandy hair, stirred by the wind, frames round cheeks and a stubborn, set chin. His clothes are the same tan shade as his skin. He looks like a piece of desert, come to rest in this tranquil place. And yet somehow, he seems to belong there, more than the owner of the dream does.

 

"Hi," says the boy, his expression open and friendly though he hasn't smiled yet.

 

"Hi," he echoes, reluctantly. There's something about this boy that makes him uncomfortable. He's familiar and yet unfamiliar, just like this place.

 

"You're Ben," the boy blurts out, his blue eyes sparkling with an excitement he can't conceal.

 

Ben is startled and more than a little wary. "How do you know who I am?"

 

"I just know, that's all," the other boy says with a trace of self-importance, his freckled nose crinkling.

 

"Well, what's _your_ name, then?" Ben challenges. Even as a kid, he doesn't like power imbalances unless he's on the side with more power.

 

"Well, my friends call me Ani," says the boy, smiling now, as if to imply that Ben can be his friend. Ben's not sure about that. He's not sure of anything.

 

"Where are we?" he demands, looking around for anything he can identify or place that would put this dream back under his control.

 

"We're inside your head," says Ani matter-of-factly.

 

"I knew _that,_ " Ben answers, irritated. "I meant, what is this? This place, the lake …"

 

"It's called Naboo," Ani informs him. "It's the most _beautiful_ planet in the whole _galaxy_ , I think."

 

 _Oh._ "My grandmother was from Naboo," Ben blurts. For some reason, he feels the urge to impress Ani, so he adds, "She was the queen."

 

This time when Ani smiles, he looks a little older. A little sad. "Yeah, I know."

 

Ben studies the smaller boy for a long time, wondering about him. How he knows all these things, how he got inside Ben's head, inside his dream. There are too many questions, and something tells him that if he asks Ani directly, he won't get any real answers.

 

" _Why_ are we here?" he asks finally.

 

Ani cocks his head and looks at Ben, his blue eyes innocent. "Does it really matter why? You're here, so why don't you just enjoy it?"

 

Ben doesn't quite know how to explain to this chubby-cheeked youngling that he doesn't know _how_ to enjoy things anymore, that he doesn't even have a _right_ to enjoy things, that he shouldn't even be here right now, that he has blood on his hands and a mission to fulfill. That this place is too lovely, too beautiful, and an ugly thing like him does not belong here. There's no way to make the other boy understand. _He_ doesn't even understand.

 

"It's really peaceful here, isn't it?" Ani says, closing his eyes and lifting his face toward the wind, letting it ruffle through his hair.

 

"Peace is a lie," Ben mutters. The words taste bad in his mouth.

 

"That's kind of stupid," Ani opines without opening his eyes.

 

"Yeah," Ben replies, quietly. "I know."

 

Silence falls between the two boys for awhile, filled only with the sound of waves on the lake shore, the gentle whisper of the warm wind.

 

Finally, Ani opens his eyes again and turns back to face Ben. "I'm going to lie down," he announces.

 

"Okay ..."

 

"You should lie down too," Ani says in a know-it-all tone. "I can tell that you're tired. You need to rest."

 

"I can't rest now," Ben tells him, feeling a stab of panic. "I have a lot of stuff to do."

 

“What stuff?”

 

Another thing he can't possibly explain to a child. But Ani's stare is unblinking now, and he knows that this boy is at least as stubborn as he is, so he has to come up with something. “I have … a job to do,” he begins. “There's a war going on, and I'm … a warrior.”

 

“You're a Jedi,” Ani says excitedly, his eyes lighting up.

 

Heat prickles in Ben's cheeks, and his stomach flops over. “No. No, I'm not.”

 

Ani just gazes at him with an all-too knowing expression. “Mmm hmmm. Sure, Ben.”

 

“I'm _not_ ,” Ben argues, his hands curling into fists. “Stop saying I am, because it's not true.”

 

“Okay, fine. So you're not a Jedi. So what's the big deal, anyway? What's so important that you need to leave here for?”

 

Ben bites his lip, looks down at the gently swaying grass around his bare feet. He doesn't really _want t_ o leave. It's so nice here. Nothing hurts right now. Why is he so eager to go back to the place where only pain and sorrow lives?

 

“Because I have to finish it,” he mumbles.

 

“Finish what?”

 

 _My training. My mission. The war. My whole stupid worthless_ _ **life.**_ “What my grandfather started,” he tells Ani. He knows the kid won't understand. He can't possibly, because Ben doesn't either. And maybe, just maybe, he never has.

 

Ani folds his arms over his chest and juts his chin, looking up at Ben. His eyes remind Ben of someone he knows, or used to know. _Why can't I remember?_ “Your grandfather? You never even met him. Why should you have to do his dirty work?”

 

Ben sputters. “Because … because … because he _asked_ me to.”

 

“Are you sure that's what he was asking you?” Ani demands. “What did he say, exactly?”

 

Ben is anxious now. “I dunno … I was little. Like, ten or something. He just said he wanted me to finish what he started, that's all.”

 

“What did he start?”

 

“If you know who I am,” Ben says irritably, “then you should _know_ who my grandfather was. He was supposed to bring balance to the Force.”

 

“Oh yeah? How was he gonna do that?”

 

If Ani is going to be this obnoxious, then he deserves whatever he gets. Ben glares down at the shorter boy and makes the meanest face he can. “By killing all the Jedi,” he snaps. “Getting rid of their weakness and letting the Dark Side have a turn. But he didn't quite manage it. So now I've gotta do it.” He regrets the words the moment he speaks them, regrets bringing words of blood and violence into this pure place, but he can't unsay them. And well, Ani did ask.

 

Ani scrunches his face up and looks up at Ben skeptically. “Really? You came up with that all by yourself?”

 

Ben flashes back irresistibly to the morning after the dream. He was going to tell Uncle Luke about it, but he was off with some of the other padawans, supervising their sparring practice, and by the time he was free, the voice had already spoken and listened and Ben didn't need to tell anyone else. The voice had told him what the dream meant, what his grandfather meant, and the voice always told the truth …

 

_You came up with that all by yourself?_

 

“No,” Ben whispers through suddenly cold lips. He feels dizzy, sick. “No, I didn't.”

 

Ani watches him for a moment, then nods sagely. “I thought so.”

 

Ben stares out at the glittering surface of the lake, unblinking. Unmoving. He doesn't have all the pieces of himself here right now, so he can't even begin to make sense of what he's been forced to admit. Can't think about what it means or doesn't mean, how it changes things or doesn't change them. He can't think at all, isn't even sure that he can breathe.

 

“Hey,” Ani pipes up urgently, from beside him. “Don't be sad, Ben. Don't be scared. You don't have to be.”

 

“What do you know about it?” Ben says bitterly. “Why do you even care?”

 

“I care about _you_ ,” Ani replies with a vehement stubbornness. “I always have. But you ought to _listen_ better. Will you listen to me now?”

 

Ben nods. “Fine,” he says weakly.

 

“Feel the sun, Ben. Feel the wind. Listen to the water. Just breathe. Don't think at all. Just rest,”Ani tells him in a soothing, cajoling tone, like he's talking to a child much younger than himself.

 

Doesn't this kid understand anything? Ben can't rest, he has to get up, he has to _fight_ …

 

"No you _don't_ ,” Ani snaps at him, his eyes flashing. “You're _safe_ here, Ben. There aren't any bad things here. It's only us here. Come on, Ben. Just relax for once. Even warriors have to sleep sometimes, you know."

 

Ben feels a smirk on his mouth. “What do _you_ know about being a warrior?”

 

“Plenty,” Ani says sternly. “I've been fighting all my life.”

 

 _Sure kid, all nine or so years of it?_ But Ben doesn't want to argue anymore. Ani clearly isn't used to having his will overridden. And Ben really is tired, _so_ tired.

 

“Okay, okay. I'll rest. Just for a little bit," he concedes. The moment he agrees, he feels so much better.

 

Ani's grin is like a rising sun. He seizes Ben's hand, his grip surprisingly strong, and all but drags him through the meadow. Letting go of Ben's hand so suddenly it makes him feel off-balance, Ani flops onto the grass contentedly, folding his arms behind his head and looking up at the clouds in rapture.

 

Ben has long since forgotten how to be content, or how to be carefree, but the grass does look nice, and he's so tired. Somewhat awkwardly, he lowers himself to the ground, a few feet away from Ani. There's a patch of those lacy purple flowers near his face, giving off a faint spicy fragrance, and the sun above is pleasantly warm on his skin. The grass beneath him is softer than any bed he's ever slept in. He can't stop himself from sighing as his small body slowly relaxes, and he closes his eyes.

 

"See?" Ani's voice fills his ears, sounding a little smug. "I _told_ ya."

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Ben mumbles back. But he's smiling.

 

Some part of him is dimly aware that his actual body is lying in a prone position on the floor of his quarters, covered in self-inflicted bruises and scratches. But here, in the sunlight and warm wind, his bare skin doesn't feel like a vulnerability, and he wears no wounds, only freckles and moles. It takes a moment for him to recognize, to understand why he feels so different right now, why there's a hollow space inside of him that doesn't gnaw, like hunger, but instead feels buoyant, _light_.

 

It's the place where the fear usually lives.

 

Part of him is also aware that there's something here, a mystery that's not a mystery, a question he really already knows the answer to. But bringing it up now would break the spell of this place. He finds that he's actually so contented in that moment, he doesn't feel the need to confirm what he already knows.

 

Aware of Ani's steadying presence near him, Ben curls up on his side, into the soft, forgiving green of the grass. It tickles his cheek, his neck, his side and stomach. In the distance he can hear the water lapping at the shore, the faint warbling of some unidentified songbirds.

 

He feels Ani reach out and take his hand again, tangling stubby fingers with Ben's longer ones. There's ground-in dirt in every line on Ani's palms, and callouses on every finger. He squeezes Ben's hand, and Ben squeezes back. They don't let go.

 

Color leaks through Ben's eyelids, staining his vision with pink and green and yellow spots, and he turns his face to the side, breathing in the scent of warm, rich dirt, blocking the light of the sun just enough that he can sleep. And sleep he does, his fingers still locked with Ani's. He sleeps for what feels like hours, what might be days. Warm. Safe. And not alone.

 

It's the best sleep he can ever remember knowing. But of course, he had to wake up sometime.

 

What wakes him is a child's frightened cry. He thinks at first must be coming from somewhere in his dream, but it's something separate, something else inside of him, one part of his mind warning his body of impending danger. It's not Ani. He knows exactly who it is. Every time Kylo Ren has ever been in danger, it's always been a child screaming out to warn him. A boy named Ben, who after all these years is still relying on Kylo Ren to keep him alive despite all of Kylo's attempts to kill him.

 

Children are such strange, clinging, trusting things. And helpfully loud.

 

Ben rises up out of the grassy meadow and Kylo Ren rises into the dark, cold room in an instant, leaping to his feet and sailing to the side An electrified pike clangs to the ground, striking sparks and shrieking across the floor where only a second ago, Kylo's head was resting.

 

His saber sails into his hand and he dances back, dodging the next blow, his battered body protesting feebly. He must have been sleeping for a very long time, because his self-inflicted wounds are halfway healed already. But he doesn't have time to think about that right now, doesn't have time to think about anything. His eyes adjust to the darkness as he sizes up his opponents: three of his fellow Knights of Ren, all bearing their wicked, archaic weapons tough enough to go up against his lightsaber. And none of them bearing any love for him.

 

Three on one … he's certainly had worse. He knows that his rest, his dream, his _grandfather_ has served him well. Physically he hasn't felt this good since … he can't remember. For all the good that it will do him.

 

Kylo Ren tosses his hair out of his eyes and feels his mouth curl into a bitter, savage smile. It's all he can do not to laugh wildly, insanely, at the irony of it all.

 

Just after being shown a dazzling burst of brightness, he's once more been plunged headfirst back into the dark.

 

He cannot bow out of this fight. He cannot run away, or forfeit. This is to the death, theirs or his, and whatever the interlude in the lake country of Naboo had done for him, it had not made him want to die. He can still feel the sunlight on his skin, but he is in the darkness now, and he cannot afford to emerge until he has seen this challenge through.

 

If, indeed, he thinks hysterically, he emerges at all. Staying under the dark is kind of the point.

 

His trials have begun.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? Kylo needed a break.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's quite exhausting for you, isn't it, Ben? Being evil."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we now return to your regularly scheduled suffering.

The trials are vicious.

 

He expected nothing more, and he wants nothing less. While he might be their master in name, there is no love lost between Kylo and the other Knights of Ren, and now they have been given free reign to take out their anger on him. His body is put to the test and there is no mercy shown, which is just as it should be. He's grateful for every slash and every bruise and every burn. So far, he's surprised by how well he's doing.  He almost thought this would be harder.  The real challenge is the fact that he's hideously outnumbered, and the Knights won't let up. Day and night, his faceless foes are chasing him constantly, keeping him on the run until he can manage to find his footing and beat them back … only for those battered fighters to be replaced by fresh ones, emerging from the shadows minutes later. These lesser fighters are cannon fodder, replaceable, but still a threat to him if he's tired enough, weakened enough.

 

He must not weaken, must not falter. Not now. He knows what's at stake. At times he feels his master's presence when he's fighting, the scratch of Supreme Leader's voice inside his head like nails on skin, unnatural and unwelcome; it's all he can do not to flinch visibly. _Feel free to thin the ranks, Kylo Ren,_ his master tells him. _We can afford no weakness here._

 

And he knows, without his master having to say it, that the same applies to him. He has always been aware that these final trials are a matter of life or death. If he does fall, it's only a consequence of him not being strong enough. But that won't happen, because he _is_ strong enough. Whatever awaits him on the other side of this struggle, Kylo Ren has to be ready to meet it. He has never had a choice.

 

The fighting trickles off after two days or so, no longer a constant onslaught but a flurry of random attacks, occurring in utterly unpredictable fits and starts. The fighting ranges over many miles of rough terrain, which keeps things interesting, at least. Supreme Leader chose this isolated planet for his personal base not only because of its remoteness but for the ancient Sith ruins that lie there, for the way the Dark Side permeates the very fabric of the place. This suits Kylo Ren. His body gets tired and sometimes it gets hurt but he can handle that, he can deal with that, can use it. He draws on the pain to get the fury to keep fighting back, and it works about as well as it always has. He just has to hope that it keeps working until he doesn't need it to anymore. Until he can stop, until he can _sleep._

 

The necessity of being on the lookout, bracing himself for the next skirmish and the next and the next, means that he can't dwell on the vision of the lake and the meadow, on the things his grandfather told him. But that's all right. He's grateful for the distraction. The struggle between the light and dark parts of himself was shredding him apart, but both halves of his broken soul seem to want to survive, in spite of everything, so now he makes them work together in order to achieve that goal. He cannot look beyond it. Cannot see past it. He doesn't dare, because he knows that what he sees will only scare him more. There is not a whisper of light in him when he stands before his foes.

 

But in the rare moments he is alone, it floods in through the cracks and burns at the edges of him.

 

It's what he doesn't see, or rather _who_ , that he can't stop thinking about.

 

His ghosts have not yet returned. Not long ago, he would have asked for nothing more. Now, he's angry at their abandonment even though he _asked_ for it. It's so, so foolish, so stupid, so _childish_ of him. Han and Obi-Wan would be nothing but potentially dangerous distractions right now, anyway. At best they would annoy him, at worst, they would shatter his entire focus, cause all that he has left to live for to come crumbling down. He can't afford to risk that. So in the few moments that he's alone, he doesn't call out, doesn't ask them to return, no matter how bad the silence, the emptiness gets.

 

It's bad right now.

 

He's managed to ditch his most recent batch of pursuers, leaving them scattered in his wake, nursing their wounds and cursing his name. Out of breath, he dares to pause, leaning against the mossy rubble of the Sith temple, placing a hand over his chest, feeling his heart race and then begin to slow. He's raw and wild and alive with the aftermath of the fight ... and yet his temporary victory is soured by the helpless realization that he has no idea what he's fighting for. His life, yes, but that hardly seems worth it. Mostly it's momentum that's carrying him through these trials. Rocketing down this course of action for most of his life has left him incapable of knowing how to do anything else. At least when he gets through with this, his master will send him after the girl, allow him to bring her back here and teach her the ways of the Force, of the Dark Side. That will give him something new and fascinating on which to focus.

 

But he can't let himself think about that right now, either. The thought doesn't give him the satisfaction that it once did. He still wants to be her teacher, that hasn't changed … but the thought of Supreme Leader being involved in any way gives him a sour feeling of dread and danger.

 

These are sinister sparks in his thoughts; he _must_ control them. He must focus on the moment or he may not survive to see the next. Reaching out, feeling through the Force, he can't sense anyone anywhere near him. Of course, they could be concealing their presence ... he snorts, the sound distorted through his mask. None of his fellow Knights are that skilled in the ways of the Force. They're brutal fighters, but none of them can come close to matching him in that kind of strength. He is truly safe from his pursuers for the first time in days, and he can spare a moment to recharge and dress his wounds.

 

Removing his mask, Kylo shakes out his sweaty hair, lets the clammy jungle air cool his face, closes his eyes for just a moment.

 

When he opens them, he's no longer alone.

 

“Hello there,” says Obi-Wan Kenobi, blue eyes bright, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards in the beginnings of a smile.

 

Kylo sighs. It looks like exasperation, but it feels like relief. "Welcome back, old man," he replies sarcastically.

 

Obi-Wan smiles and there's something about it ... it's far less melancholy than his usual expression. There's a warmth about the ghost that has been absent the past few times Kylo has seen him. He looks almost _happy._

 

But why has he come alone?

 

"Where's my father?" Kylo blurts before he can stop himself.

 

"Boo," says the all-too familiar voice from over his shoulder.

 

He does jump; he can't help himself. Embarrassed he spins around, frowning fiercely. The movement aggravates a strained muscle in his side, and Kylo's frown deepens as he takes in the sight of his father's ghost. Han Solo looks younger than he did than the last time; less like the weary, aged stranger Kylo slew on Starkiller, and more like the man he used to call Dad, once upon a time. It's a jolting sight, but after the jolt, something settles neatly, all too easily into place inside of Kylo Ren. He realizes that if Han Solo hadn't shown up, he would have been disappointed. Just like he always used to be disappointed, when his dad failed to appear for days on end. The feeling inside him when he sees his father's face … it feels like _…_

 

… _home._

 

With a heaviness growing inside of him, he turns away.

 

"Miss us?" Han Solo asks cheekily, stepping back into Kylo's line of sight, not to be outdone.

 

"Don't," Kylo says quietly, without his usual heat. His body is aching and tired, and his heart is sore. "Just don't. I haven't got time for this."

 

"You've got nothing but time, kid," his father tells him, leaning against the nearest stone wall, as if ghosts even needed to lean. "There's nothing living around for miles."

 

Having this confirmed makes Kylo lose just a fraction of the tension he's been carrying in every line of his body since the trials began. Now's as good a time as any to attend to some basic needs. With the Force, he moves aside a loose stone mossy in the wall, and unearths the medkit and emergency rations he hid here months ago.

 

"Smart kid," his father mutters approvingly. Kylo feels his ears turn red, but he doesn't say anything as he digs out the supplies.

 

"You spoke with Anakin," Obi-Wan pipes up suddenly, with a child's exuberance, like he can't contain his enthusiasm anymore.

 

"Yes," Kylo says shortly, beginning to remove his armor. If the ghosts want to yammer on at him, they're going to have to do it while he's otherwise occupied.

 

"And?" Obi-Wan prompts, eagerly raising an eyebrow. "Your grandfather finally came to you, offered you guidance. You've been longing for this for years, Ben, don't you have anything to say on the matter?"

 

"What else is there to say?" Kylo's voice is flat as he removes his shirt, and he winces as the strained muscles and bruised ribs tell on him. There's an ugly bruise blooming on his side, interrupted by the mess of still-shiny new skin that was replaced after the bowcaster incident. He slaps a bacta patch over it and breathes in sharply. "He wasn't particularly helpful." Once again, he's bitter, and perhaps unfair. He knows that Anakin Skywalker helped him, showed him kindness and comradeship, given him a peace and rest that he hasn't known in years, and which he had sorely needed.

 

He also knows that his grandfather has thrown him into even greater confusion, ripped the ground out from beneath him and left him hanging upside down, with only one question burning beneath his skin, destroying him from the inside out.

 

_Did you come up with that all by yourself?_

 

And once again, Leader Snoke's face, pale and pitted with those huge devouring eyes, looms up before him, filling him with panic and a feeling of sickness.

 

_No, I didn't._

 

He bites his lip.  Tries not to think it, but he can't stop himself.  

 

_If Supreme Leader lied about my grandfather's wishes, what else has he lied about?_

 

"Anakin wants you to be free, Ben," Obi-Wan says, bringing him back to the moment, "as do we all."

 

Kylo groans and puts his face in his hands. _Stupid ghosts._ In their so-called attempts to free him, they've only constructed a more painful prison against which he will beat himself bloody until he can no longer stand. But if they don't see that already, there's no way that he can make them see it. He's sure that they've been watching him, knows what he's done to himself, the screaming and the self-inflicted wounds. If they're still here after that, they're not likely to leave just because he asks.

 

"I will never be free," he replies, quiet and fatalistic. There's a thread of anguish running through his words, but it's nothing he can't contain, he tells himself, it's nothing he can't control. "No matter what any dead person reveals to me, I'll _never_ be free. It's too late.  And I don't know how."

 

"But you _do_ know, Ben," Obi-Wan prods at him. “You do know how. It's only that you're afraid."

 

In the depths of his mind, he knows what Obi-Wan is suggesting, and it takes all of the mental strength that he has left to shove it back down before it can form in his head, before it can become something solid and weighty and real enough to ripple through the Force and be picked up on by Supreme Leader. He decides that it's better, safer, not to feel, and not to answer. He clenches his jaw and goes about treating the rest of his wounds, bruises and cuts and scrapes and burns, all minor annoyances, but it's something to do. There's only so much pain he can endure before it begins to interfere with his performance.

 

Obi-Wan frowns deeply but doesn't push further, and it's his father who speaks next.

 

"I hope you'll pardon the expression," Han Solo says idly, watching Kylo smear bacta on his bruised knuckles. "But seeing you get your ass handed to you every day is killing me, Ben."

 

Kylo winces at that. He's definitely _not_ going to pardon the expression. Those words are knives and who knows how long his father's ghost has been sharpening them, waiting for the perfect moment to strike? Waiting until Kylo Ren appears vulnerable. But appearances are deceiving.

 

"I am not 'getting my ass handed' to me," he mutters, putting the medkit away. "I'm winning."

 

"At what cost, Ben?" Obi-Wan inquires, arms folded, tone skeptical.

 

Cost? How can there be a cost when he has nothing left to lose? Kylo ignores the old man, raking a hand through his disarrayed hair, trying to steady his mind and his heart, knowing already that it's useless.

 

"You're looking kinda skinny," Han Solo criticizes, eyes raking his son's bandaged torso. "Are you getting enough protein?"

 

_Unbelievable._ “You missed a lot of my development,” Kylo sneers. “For all you know, I've always looked this way.”

 

Han Solo shakes his head, laughing, remembering. “No way, kid. You were a fat little thing when you were born. You had about five chins.”

 

“I did _not_ have ...” _Wait, he's baiting you, don't rise to it._ Kylo sighs and bites off the rest of his retort, ignoring the telltale stinging in his eyes. “That was a long time ago.”

 

“Still,” his father tells him, “you're too tall to be that skinny. Eat a sandwich every once and awhile.”

 

Kylo Ren hastens to put his shirt back on. "When I want your opinion on my physical appearance, I'll ask for it."

 

His father laughs. "I'll look forward to that day, kid. I've got plenty more suggestions, believe me."

 

Kylo lets his breath out in a hiss between his teeth. It releases none of the pressure from his mind. Sitting down cross-legged on the damp mossy stones, he rips open a ration bar and eats it, following it up (glaring stubbornly anywhere but at his father) with a protein supplement. The ghosts apparently have nothing better to do than watch him eat. When he's done, he closes his eyes and leans his head back against the stones. He hates to admit it, but there's nothing he wants more than rest.

 

Longingly, he thinks of the sparkling lake, the soft meadow grass, the purple flowers. His grandfather's kind blue eyes – _like Uncle Luke's,_ he thinks, unwillingly, and he tries to push the thought away but he's done it now, he's torn another hole in himself and now he's longing for other impossible things. A home he used to know. His uncle's stories, the lilt of laughter in his voice. His father lifting him high above his head, sailing him through the air: _hey kid look at you you're flying._ A soft blue blanket and a flat white pillow that somehow always smelled like his mother, from when she used to lie there and talk to him until he fell asleep. He can still remember the sound of her voice, soft and rich and warm, close to his ear. The feel of her kiss on his cheek. Something he will never feel again.

 

He turns his face to the side, listless.

 

"You must be tired," Obi-Wan remarks.

 

"Of you two? Very,” Kylo mumbles, not bothering to open his eyes.

 

"Of bearing the burden of being broken in half," Obi-Wan corrects. "It's quite exhausting for you, isn't it, Ben? Being evil."

 

Kylo's eyes fly open and his head snaps up.

 

"Hey, Kenobi," Han starts to interrupt, but his son turns to face him, pointing a finger aggressively to silence him.

 

"I don't need you to speak on my behalf," he snaps. He can't bear being defended by the father he killed. He doesn't deserve it and he doesn't need it. Before he can see the hurt on his father's face, Kylo turns back towards Obi-Wan, who looks as serene as ever, curse him.

 

"Evil, am I? That's a meaningless word, old man. What is evil to you, except a way of using the Force that you don't happen to approve of? Because you don't understand it. The galaxy can't go on like this, following the antiquated ideals of the Jedi, of the Republic. Peace? Justice? What do those words even mean? Has anyone ever actually seen them?" He shakes his head, his nerves singing, his brain buzzing with the adrenaline of the argument. "People suffer and starve and bleed and die under the New Republic just as they did under the Old, near the end. At least under the Empire there was order. And the First Order will provide the same. _Because_ of the Dark Side. Power is the only truth, the only thing that brings order, the only way to go on in this world. And real power, power that lasts, power that works, power that makes things better? That only comes from the Dark Side. That's why I do the things I do. Not that I owe you an explanation," he adds hastily. His cobbled-together defense, which flooded out of him with such childish desperation, sounds weak to his own ears, and he can only imagine how pathetic it sounds to Kenobi, who baited him so effortlessly into giving it.

 

"Of course you don't owe me an explanation," answers Obi-Wan civilly, his blue eyes gleaming, canny. "But please, answer me one question, Ben. And do try to answer it honestly. From your soul, not your training. When have you, through your actions, made anything in this galaxy better?"

 

He's already opened his mouth to reply, to dignify the attack with an answer, before he realizes that he can't think of a single example.

 

Maybe there was something from years ago, some way he made a difference that he could have been proud of, but lately, all Kylo Ren has done is make everything catastrophically worse, not just for himself, but for the First Order as well. He shuts his mouth. There's a flicker of triumph in Kenobi's eyes that stirs up fresh anger.

 

"Don't you have anything better to do, old man?" he snaps. "Someone else out there who you could bore to death with your guidance?"

 

"Oh, I see," Obi-Wan replies, almost cheerfully. "You mean Rey. Are you suggesting that I give aid to your enemy, Ben?"

 

_Damn._ That's exactly what he did mean, although he wasn't thinking of it in those terms. He needs to be more careful.

 

"She's not my enemy," he says sharply. "She's going to be my apprentice."

 

"Never gonna happen, kid," Han Solo informs his son, almost smugly.

 

“We'll see,” says Kylo.

 

"If you plan to turn her to the Dark Side, Ben,” Obi-Wan wants to know, "then why would you wish for _me_ to speak to her?"

 

Kylo cocks his head, allowing himself a little smirk. "Isn't it obvious, Kenobi? With your track record in apprentices, she'll fall to the Dark Side without me having to lift a finger.”

 

His own provocation, low blow though it is, falls flat. Obi-Wan is watching him with a knowing glint in his eyes, and Han Solo is failing miserably to hide his own smirk.

 

"Your feelings betray you, Ben," Kenobi says softly. "You'll be happy to know then, that I do in fact speak with Rey. Fairly often."

 

“Of course you do,” Kylo answers with bitterness. They know him too well now, these ghosts. They've chipped away at him until soft underbelly is all they can see. But there is more to him than that. “Did she say anything about me?”

 

“Nothing flattering, I'm afraid,” Obi-Wan informs him, eyes twinkling.

 

Well, that's the exact opposite of surprising. The girl's face looms in his mind: feral and beautiful and full of well-earned hatred for him. The image of her stalking him in the snow is burned into his mind just as the scar she gave him is burned across his face. Not for the first time, he wishes she had just finished him. The thought of facing her again is …

 

It's ridiculous. He was grievously wounded when they fought on Starkiller, reeling inside and out. The next time they meet in battle, it will go his way. He doesn't think this out of any arrogance, it's just one of the few things he's actually certain of. He'll be at his full strength for this, his training completed, his hands steady, his heart ablaze with darkness. She won't stand a chance. So it's absurd to feel the way he does now, the anticipation mingled with dread of facing off with the girl again, much less bringing her back _here_.

 

That little scrap of sand and stardust frightens him. But not in the way that Supreme Leader frightens him. More in the way his father does. He cannot ignore her. When the girl is near, she alters everything she touches, radiating power and light … and darkness too. The girl burns bright in his mind, a ray of hope. His _only_ hope. With her at his side, steeped in the same terrible mingling of darkness and light, he will never have to be alone again.

 

"That's why I have to complete my training," he murmurs, holding that image in his head, "I have to get to her."

 

"The girl will not go willingly, Ben," Obi-Wan warns him.

 

Kylo smiles faintly at the thought. "Of course not. But she'll learn to see things my way, in time."

 

"Are you serious?" His father is tilting his head, looking at Kylo Ren like he's lost what's left of his mind. "Those are some big delusions there, kid. Listen, I _know_ Rey, and she's made of stronger stuff than that. She'll stay true to who she is and she'll beat your ass in the process. Maybe even kill you, this time!"

 

Kylo closes his eyes. "So be it," he says in a whisper. If anyone is going to end this hell that is his life, he wants it to be her. That would be poetic. "But I'm going to do whatever I have to to bring her back with me."

 

"How could you, Ben?" Obi-Wan butts in, his gentle voice a mingling of calm and horror and genuine wonder at Kylo's mindset. "Do you really want to do this? Bring that girl here so that Snoke can claw through her mind and send her crawling on the floor with pain and make her beg just for one more breath? Rip her away from the ones she loves? Hide her from the light until she can no longer see a way to live without darkness? Condense her down the hardest parts of herself until kindness, goodness, sweetness feels alien to her? Turn her young life into an endless hell of blood and guilt and pain? Make a monster of her? In short, will you really do to her everything that's been done to you?" Obi-Wan has been gathering up steam and volume, he slows and softens his tone now, asking only, "Ben, could you really be so cruel?"

 

He hates that it's come to this.

 

“You know I can,” he whispers, looking at them both. “You both know I can.”

 

They're quiet, both of them, for a long time, both their faces impassive. They know the truth about him, they just don't want to believe it.

 

“And what happens after you complete _her_ training, Ben?” Obi-Wan asks him finally. “What will you do then?”

 

The emptiness inside of him is growing by the moment. Even the dream of a companion can't fill this. Kylo flattens his voice into submission before he replies. "Whatever my master requests of me."

 

"And what will he request of you? Massacre another village? Help him destroy another star system? How many more have to die?"

 

A shudder rips through him at that. The feeling of those planets dying explodes across his consciousness once again, a brilliant flare of red on black. He's always been a selfish creature, always will be, but even he could not ignore such a disturbance in the Force. Even he had never _wanted_ that.

 

But he had not stopped it, either.

 

"You could not have stopped it, Ben," Obi-Wan tells him. "Not alone. You are only one cog in the First Order war machine; a more powerful cog than most but even so, for a fight of this kind, you need allies. You _will_ need them, if you are to stop it from happening again."

 

Kylo shakes his head, wishing he could shake loose the treasonous, dangerous notions that have taken to swirling through his mind. They sparkle with brightness in the dark, tempting him. Hurting him with how much he wants them, wants anything else but the wretched life he's been existing in. "The Supreme Leader is the only hope for order in the galaxy," he spits out, and he has to spit the words because he wants to rid himself of them and he hates the way they taste. "His will must be done."

 

"Oh yeah, because as everyone knows, the only way to save the galaxy is by blowing up bits and pieces of it," his father snarls, his eyes flashing.

 

Shame claws at the red mushy insides of Kylo Ren's heart. "Some have to die so that the rest can have a better life," he says hollowly. Because he is hollow, or supposed to be. He is not supposed to have a will of his own, or opinions of his own. He is supposed to be Supreme Leader's favorite weapon and mow down whatever stands in their way. All his brightness, his hope, his defiance, that was supposed to have been carved out of him years ago, and yet here he stands, aching heart on fire, wanting nothing more than for someone to tell him that it's okay, that's it's right to want something other than this. Like his grandfather had done. Given him a chance to stop fighting and stop being afraid and just be himself, just be at peace, for once. It was everything he shouldn't have wanted, and he could weep with how much he wants it again.

 

"Kinda like I had to die so that you could be a better darksider?" his father says pointedly. "How's that one working out for you?"

 

" _Don't_ ," Kylo growls, but it's not a command, not cold and clipped and severe. It's raw and torn out of him, frantic and fevered. He's begging his father not to say this, not to make _him_ have to say it. "Please, _please,_ don't."

 

He will not admit that he killed his father for nothing. He won't, not ever. Not even Han Solo can make him say it.

 

"Okay," his father agrees, grumpily. "But the old man's question stands, Ben. You _know_ that Snoke's lied to you. That he's using you to fight a war you don't even really believe in. And you know … you know what he'll do to you if you try to defy him. So what's your big plan?"

 

_Plan?_ The word stirs something up in him like specks of dirt dancing in a beam of light.

 

Kylo Ren doesn't have a plan. He isn't any good at plans. All he has is an image, the same image that whispered through his thoughts earlier, and he doesn't dare put words to it even in his head.

 

But he can't seem to rid himself of it either, the image of Supreme Leader falling, with Kylo's lightsaber burning a hole through his heart.

 

Kylo's own heart races as the thought rushes across his mind and he has to force it back down again. Kill the Supreme Leader ... even a month ago, would such a thought ever have occurred to him? He has suffered beyond all description at Snoke's hands, but he always, blindly, stumbled along through the pain. Told himself that he deserved it all, even needed it, wanted it. It was all going to make him better. That was what Supreme Leader wanted for him. He wanted Kylo Ren to be strong and powerful, as much as Kylo Ren wanted it for himself.

 

He still wants to be strong and powerful. But he's wanted the same thing for fifteen years and it isn't working. Hasn't worked. Will never work.

 

Is he strong enough or weak enough or mad enough to go through with this, to bring the quickening of treason in his heart to bear? To make that image a reality?

 

He can't possibly make that choice here, or now. He is still soft, unformed. When his trials are over, when he emerges victorious, then and only then can he allow himself to cut his teeth on the thought of murdering his master.

 

It was his grandfather who made him think of it first. Hearing from his grandfather's own mouth that that wasn't what he meant was a message even he, blind and self-deluded as he's been, cannot succeed in ignoring. Anakin Skywalker would have no reason to lie to him.

 

And his father? Han Solo is a consummate liar. His son knew that years ago. Even when he still considered his father the bright center to his universe, he knew it. But for all of his father's faults, he would have no reason, no reason at all, to spend his afterlife chasing after a son who betrayed him and killed him and wants nothing to do with him, when it would be so much easier to simply fade away, to simply rest ... he doesn't. He _stays._ He stays and endures every insult that Kylo Ren throws his way.

 

Why would he do that, if he didn't mean what he says?

 

He considers what he knows. Supreme Leader delights in hurting Kylo Ren. He's always known that, he just accepted it as part of making him stronger. But he was stronger when he emerged from the soothing dream of his grandfather than he has ever been after emerging from an audience with Snoke. That gentleness, that kindness that Anakin Skywalker showed him … it patched the falling pieces of him back together again, just enough.

 

And he had felt safer, more powerful in that memory of being a tiny child asleep in his father's arms, surrounded by his parents' love, than he ever had on a battlefield.

 

He has never been whole before. He isn't now, either, but he's had a taste of what it might be like, and he just wants it so _badly …_

 

He realizes he's been staring off into nothing, zoning out, when he hears his father saying his name.  Obi-Wan has stood aside, watching, listening, but not interfering, as Han Solo calls his son back to reality.  

 

"Ben, what are you still doing here?" Han Solo asks him, turning back the question that Kylo has asked him so many times. “Why don't you just go?”

 

"I have to complete my training.” The words fall as flat and hollow as his echoing heart.

 

"The hell you do," his father tells him, passionate with anger. "You could be free of him. Of all of this. You're stronger than Snoke is. You could fight your way to a shuttle. You could fly away, go anywhere. Do anything. Just … just get away from this place, these people who want nothing more than to see you break. Don't let them do this to you, Ben. Don't let Snoke destroy you. _Please_."

 

Something warms, ripples, shifts inside of Kylo Ren. He realizes with some difficulty that he's almost ... touched ... by Han Solo's confidence in his abilities. Those gruff words resonate in the chambers of his heart more loudly than any of Leader Snoke's cold words about his power and potential of the years. That's horrifying. It's also foolish.

 

Kylo Ren closes his eyes, breathes, opens them again, looks at his father. "They would shoot me down in an instant," he points out, his voice very soft. With this indecision, this wavering inside of him, every breath he takes feels like an act of treason; he doesn't dare jostle the Force with his fears, his futile fantasies of just being free for the first time in his life. "I'd never make it out of the atmosphere." It's true. He's not half the pilot his father is. Was. And Supreme Leader would know at once if such a betrayal was attempted. There's no escape for Kylo Ren, not now. Not that kind of escape. The only way out of this, the _only_ way, is through it.

 

"But you would do it if you could," his father prompts him, his voice low, glowing with embers of hope. "You want to leave, don't you? At least, a little bit?"

 

He has to admit it. Not to his father, but to himself. He wants to leave.

 

The problem remains that he doesn't have anywhere in the entire galaxy to go.

 

"And even if I had the option, what to you propose that I do after?" he challenges his father, looking up at him with a desperation he hopes the ghost can't identify. "Throw myself on the mercy of the Resistance?" His voice shakes at the thought; he can't help it. He's not afraid of them or their so-called justice. He's not even really afraid of dying. He's afraid of _her._

 

"Your mom would protect you, kid," his father says, his voice warm, fervent, cutting through the mire of his son's thoughts. "I know she would."

 

Those words fill Kylo Ren with so much shame and guilt he can't hold it all. After everything he's been, everything he's done, everything he knows he's still capable of doing, will do again if he has to ... he _can't_ go crawling back to hide behind his mother. He's killed and tortured her comrades, stood against everything she so passionately believes in, become an integral part of a regime that would love nothing more than to see her dead. He robbed her of the son she should have had, a _good_ son, a boy who cared about her more than anything. He broke her beloved brother, took him away too. He murdered her husband, ruined what little chance the three of them had of ever standing together again, once more a family. Even if she did accept him back, even if somehow she managed to forgive him … there would always be something missing. The place where Han Solo should have been.

 

His heart twists at the thought of what he's done to her. No, he's hurt his mother so deeply that there can be no amends. He has taken everything from her. All that she has left is her Resistance, and he's tried his best to crush that too.

 

He can never face her again.

 

Even if she wanted to see him, which he knows, he _knows_ she doesn't.

 

"That isn't an option," he whispers, hollow voice, hollow chest, hollow eyes, turning his face away from his father.

 

"It's the _only_ option, Ben," his father continues, speaking fiercely, moving so that they're facing each other again. He will not let Kylo look away. "What else are you going to do? Keep being Snoke's puppet? His chew toy?”

 

_Puppet._ He feels the echoes of every move he's made over half his life. How many of them had he really chosen? How much of what he's done is even really _his_? _Chew toy._ He feels the sting of every so-called lesson, starting with those words whispered into his head when he wasn't even old enough to speak himself. Ending with the agony he still feels every time he takes an order from Supreme Leader. And he just keeps taking them anyway.

 

_He never had to tear me apart. I did it for him._ Horror, despair chokes Kylo Ren, and he looks up at his father, seeing him through a blur of impending tears.

 

“There's one person alive left in this galaxy who loves you,” Han Solo is saying now, that fiery look on his face. “One person left alive who would do anything for you. You _need_ to go to her, Ben. You have to."

 

He shakes his head, his eyes welling until the tear slip down his cheeks.

 

"That's your problem, isn't it?” Han Solo has found a weakness and now he's working it, his voice rising, his excitement carrying him away on a wave of emotions and daydreams. “You don't know what you're fighting for anymore, do you? Well, you _could_ have something to fight for. You could help the Resistance. With you on their side, the First Order wouldn't stand a chance in hell. You could be the thing that turns the tide of this fight. You could save the galaxy, Ben!"

 

_**No.**_ "I can't," he gasps, his throat tight, his head aching. Once again, his father's faith in him hurts worse than any cutting insult ever could. _This is the man you thought betrayed you? This is who you chose to hate?_ "You make it sound so easy but it's not. I _can't_."

 

"I don't remember ever saying that it was gonna be easy," his dad corrects him, light in his eyes, steel in his voice. "It won't be. But that doesn't mean you can't do it. I _know_ you can, Ben..."

 

“You're _wrong_ ,” Kylo Ren says fiercely, but he can't keep his voice from breaking, can't keep his agony from showing on his tear-streaked face. “Like always, you're wrong. I _can't_ go there. I can't go back to her. She won't want me. I'll just make everything _worse_.” All that he has ever done is make everything worse, from the moment he was born.

 

“Things can't get much worse than they are right now, kid. And as for your mom, she _does_ want you. Trust me. She wants you back. I think I just might know her better than you.”

 

Kylo just shakes his head. His dad might know his mom, but _he_ knows hatred, anger. Betrayal. He knows the limits of what can be forgiven, and he knows that he has passed well beyond them. “She doesn't want me.” _She never really did._

 

“Okay,” Han Solo says sarcastically, “if you're so sure of that, why not prove it to your old man, huh? March your ass to the nearest building with a working comm station and send her a message. I can tell you a secure channel to choose, it won't show up as Resistance; no one'll be able to tell what you're doing until you've already done it. Or wait, better yet, use the damn Force! I don't care how you do it, but you reach out to her. You tell her you're done with Snoke, with the Dark Side, with the First Order. You tell her you want to come home, and you see what she says. If she tells you to shove it, if she tells you it's too late, and I'm wrong, then … I guess that's it. But that's not what's gonna happen. I promise you that.”

 

Kylo Ren shakes his head, hides his face in his hands, tugs at his own hair. “I can't, I can't, I _can't._..” Tears run down into his mouth, bitter and harsh.

 

“You could do anything,” his father tells him, his voice raw with emotion. “I always knew that about you, Ben. I didn't … I couldn't understand it, not really. But I knew.”

 

He's still shaking his head. There's no way he can respond to this, the blind faith of a dead man with every reason to hate him, who loves him instead. Who's still trying to _save_ him.

 

And he's not the only one.

 

The Force flickers and flares around him, and inside of Kylo Ren, Ben Solo cries out a warning.

 

“Someone's coming,” Kylo hisses, rising to his feet, sniffling, smearing his tears away with the back of his hand, reaching for the hilt of his lightsaber.

 

The ghosts fade out of sight at once, but he can still feel them. They stick with him, stubborn shadows, but at least they know when to keep quiet, this time.

 

He can no longer pretend he wants them gone.  

 

He can no longer imagine facing this without them.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so ... this week has been kind of very really rough. hence the long delay between last chapter and this one. but I'm back :D chapter eight will be up ... in a more timely manner than this one was, that's for sure. this story is turning out to be much more involved than I thought it was going to be, but that just means more time with Kylo, so I'm not complaining. as always, your comments and feedback make my heart happy <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is beyond sorrow. This is a reckoning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> buckle up, folks.

Just for now, the world has shifted back to something that makes sense. Violence is the one thing that Kylo Ren does well. Blood thrumming rapid and eager through his veins, he waits for his prey. He does not have to wait too long.

From the shadows at the mouth of the ruined temple emerges a bulky figure in black armor. He swaggers toward Kylo, dragging his electrified pike across the stony ground behind him with an unholy screech. This lack of subtlety suits Kylo just fine; he's never been one for sneaking around either. Both he and his opponent know what they're here for.

“Vekko.” Kylo Ren greets the new arrival, a nasty edge to his voice, finger resting on his saber's ignition switch. “How's the leg?” He'd burned Vekko's thigh viciously during the attack that kicked off his trials, put the other knight out of commission for the past couple of days, but he knew Vekko would be back.

“ _Kylo_ ,” Vekko answers, his voice higher than one would expect for a man of his size, his tone light and mocking. “The leg's fine.” He wears no mask over his blunt, stubbled face. As usual, Vekko doesn't show much respect for the uniform. Or for Kylo Ren, his supposed master. Or for anything else, really. The older knight isn't as tall as Kylo, but he's bulkier, with a brutal face and meaty hands made for murder. The two of them have clashed several times before, and it's never been pleasant. It is unlikely to be pleasant today, with Vekko nursing a grudge about his leg, and Kylo falling apart on the inside. “Glad I could finally get you alone.”

Kylo resists the urge to laugh because of course, he's not alone. Not really.

“Heard you up here talking to yourself,” Vekko sneers, taking a purposeful step closer. Kylo doesn't make any effort to draw back, doesn't cede any ground. Not to this swine. “That's a new low for you, I gotta say. I always knew you were a little . . .” (Vekko twirls his forefinger in circles beside his head) “but I had no idea just now unstable you really are.”

What little patience Kylo Ren possesses is gone; he's used it up questioning everything he ever thought he knew. “I'll _show_ you unstable.”

Vekko takes another step closer and his pale eyes light up as he registers the expression on Kylo's face, the redness of his eyes and nose. Instinctively, self-protectively, he does draw back at that. Just a half-step, but it's been noticed. “Why, Kylo Ren … have you been _crying_?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Kylo says automatically. His voice, still raw, cracks like a teenager's, and Vekko doesn't miss that either, an ugly smile spreading across his face in response to the perceived weakness.

“Oh, I see how it is,” Vekko gloats.

Kylo is silent. Vekko's going to have to die, it's just a question of how to dispatch him quickly. Kylo's not in the mood to play today.

“I know what you _di-i-d_ ,” Vekko says now, in a sing-song, childish way, his pale eyes glinting with malice and mischief.

_Of course you do._ Vekko's aware of Kylo Ren's former identity, his birth name. He was there that night at the Jedi temple when Ben Solo's life went up in a plume of blood and flame. But that's old news. This is something else. Kylo knows that Vekko's baiting him, and he presses his lips together with the effort of not speaking, not taunting back.

“On Starkiller Base,” Vekko clarifies with malignant glee. His pike lets out a metallic shriek as he drags it across the wall, blue sparks flickering through the air and sizzling in the damp climate.

_Oh._ Does Vekko really think that he can hope to wound or weaken Kylo Ren with this? Any more than Kylo himself already has? He ignites his lightsaber, savoring the sound of it sizzling to life, feeling the rampant heat of it, close and dangerous in his bare hand. “What of it?” he snaps, twirling the saber idly, trying to appear unconcerned.

“I just gotta know ... I'm really curious,” Vekko says, his mouth breaking back into that gap-toothed, thoroughly unpleasant grin. “Did you cry when you killed your daddy?”

The twirling stops. Everything stops. He should have been prepared for this inane taunting – it's exactly Vekko's style and he knew it was coming - but he's reached the end of his tether when it comes to Han Solo's death.

“I don't see what it matters,” he answers finally, his voice barren, stripped. “The point is, I killed him.”

“Kylo, please. You think you're fooling me for a second?” Vekko laughs. “I _know_ you. You can kill whoever you want but you're still as soft as rotten fruit on the inside. I bet you did cry. I mean, you cried that night at the Jedi temple. You threw _up_ when you saw what you'd done. I remember. Blue milk all over the ground...”

“Are you planning to talk me to death, Vekko? Or are you just too frightened to fight me for real?” Kylo's voice has gone from a bare whisper to one brimming with uncontrolled rage, and Vekko is too stupid to realize that an emotional Kylo Ren is far, far more dangerous to him than if he were merely bored. 

“ _Easy_ , pretty boy,” Vekko says, his grin widening as he and Kylo begin to circle each other, ever so slowly. “Or not so pretty anymore, I should say. Think that scar makes you look tougher? You're not tough, Kylo. You're an overgrown, overconfident pup and I'm really looking forward to breaking you.”

_You're a little late for that._ It's Kylo's turn to smile, and it's a brittle thing, a ritual baring of teeth that want to taste blood. “If you're so looking forward to it, then why the procrastination?”

“Oh, Kylo, Kylo, Kylo,” Vekko shakes his head. “What's the rush? Just thought we could have one last chat before I eviscerate you. Thought I'd tell you, honestly, I know you've given you shit over the years, but when I heard about your latest kill? I gained a little bit of respect for you. Must take some balls, to look into the eyes of the man who helped bring you into the world, and just straight-up take him out of it.”

Kylo Ren is out of insults, out of comebacks … all that he has left is a rage too deep to be expressed, a rage directed not just at Vekko but at himself. There's a pressure in his chest and he snarls to release it, the sound more Wookiee than human.

“Ooh, touched a nerve, did I?” Vekko barely looks frightened at all. _The fool._ “Oh come on, lighten up. You should be proud of yourself for getting rid of that rebel scum Han Solo once and for all.”

Kylo spins his lightsaber faster, but otherwise he's still, watching his enemy with burning eyes. His heartbeat is a war drum in his ears. Somewhere in the back of his head, the ghosts are holding their breath.

“Since you're not going to answer my first question,” Vekko says, continuing to dig his own grave, his eyes now following the swirling path of the red lightsaber with only the barest flicker of unease, “maybe you'll answer this one. Did your _daddy_ cry when you killed him?”

Kylo hurls his lightsaber straight at Vekko's head. Vekko manages to dodge and deflect the blade of the saber with his pike, sending it sliding across the stones, leaving scorch marks in its wake, but that wasn't ever the point.

It was just a distraction, and it worked perfectly.

Kylo lashes out with the Force and jerks the pike from Vekko's hands so hard that Vekko's gloves are shredded, his palms torn open and bleeding. The pike, made of nearly indestructible material, is snapped jaggedly in half, and the pieces lie sparking and sizzling on the stones and moss, useless now. It's all done in a second, and Vekko's floating in the air, already coughing and choking. Kylo Ren steps toward him, closing the distance in two strides, his bare hand extended in a tightening, uncompromising fist, a red sheet of rage roiling in his head. He's fire and he's ice and he's been yearning for someone to crush beneath the horror of the extremes that dwell in him. This time, at least he can be sure that the person he's crushing deserves it.

It's a monster's sort of reasoning. But light or no light, Kylo Ren is a monster, and that isn't going to change any time soon. He regards his prey with head canted, lips twisted into something not human enough to be called a smile.

“No, my dad didn't cry,” he says, so full of wrath that he's almost calm. “But _you_ will.”

Vekko's eyes are bulging, his face purpling. A more intelligent being would find a way to fight back, but Vekko panics. Overconfidence has always been his weakness in fights; he doesn't have the skill to back up his elaborate threats. Kylo could almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

Vekko's bleeding hands scrabble at his own constricting throat for several moments before he ever thinks to try and lash out at his captor. When he throws his arm out in a weak Force-push, Kylo is ready for him. He braces himself against the feeble impact, and with a flick of his wrist, he shatters every bone in Vekko's arm. Vekko's howl of pain comes out as a weak and fruitless gurgle.

Kylo tightens his grip even more, and Vekko's neck strains, cords and tendons standing out sharply as he kicks and thrashes in the air, spittle flecking the corners of his bluing lips. Kylo feels his enemy's life flickering and fading in his hands. He could loosen his grip before tightening it again and again. He could draw this out, make it take a long time, really make Vekko suffer ...

_End it,_ a scolding voice says sharply in his mind. _Stop playing with him._

He'd like to blame the ghosts, but it turns out he's talking to himself. And perhaps it would be wise to listen. The sound of Vekko's choking is annoying, and anyway, Kylo has succeeded in his goal ... there are fat tears rolling down the dying man's flushed face.

Kylo snaps Vekko's neck, the crack of it echoing through the air, and hurls the body hard against the decaying rock wall. There's a chorus of crunching as bones break on impact, and the bulky corpse slides limp to the ground, all sprawled out at unlikely angles, covered in dust and bits of rock that fell from the temple wall when he hit it.

Kylo blinks furiously, his chest heaving, and he finds himself once again unsatisfied. Killing Vekko doesn't seem to have helped soothe the storm inside of him at all. His head swims, and, stumbling, he reaches out to brace himself against the nearest wall. He doesn't want to keep staring at the body but he can't take his eyes off of it.

Vekko looks smaller in death.

 

Before he can stop it, before he even has time to register what's happening, Kylo is plunged into a vision, a memory so vivid and real that he's afraid he's actually been shoved through space and time, landing right back in his gawky fifteen-year-old body. Too-big ears that stick out no matter how hard he tries to arrange his hair to hide them. A too-big nose that takes over his whole narrow face. A big, always frowning mouth that never says the right things. Too-big hands, too-big feet, all of him jutting out at awkward angles, getting caught and tangled in things, constantly tripping over himself. He had never fit anywhere, not even in his own family.

That hadn't changed when he was ten and his mom left with Uncle Luke. The other padawans didn't like him. Some of them were nice at first, but then he started training with them and they weren't so friendly anymore. He was better than everyone else, and they were jealous of him, Supreme Leader said. That was why they didn't like him. Jax, the oldest of the padawans and Ben's senior by two years, was the worst. He played the perfect, most reasonable Jedi around Master Luke, but the minute Luke's back was turned he started picking at Ben. Once he told Ben that he ought to use his ears to fly away. Supreme Leader heard Ben crying about that one night, and was there to tell him how little Jax or anything he or the other kids said mattered.

But somehow it still hurt. It wouldn't stop hurting, how alone he felt, how cut off from every other living thing. It wasn't like he had done anything wrong on _purpose._ He was just more powerful than the other kids, and they thought he was a showoff. Sometimes in training, he hurt them without even meaning too, and they called him a bully, or even a freak. They were _scared_ of him, and Uncle Luke was scared of him too, always telling him he had to be calm, to tone it down, that he was going to help him find a way to control his powers. _“It's going to be okay, Ben, if you just trust me and do as I ask,”_ Uncle Luke was always saying, but Supreme Leader had taught him that power wasn't meant to controlled, it was meant to be used, to be respected, and embraced.

_You don't have to be ashamed of you are, of what you can do,_ Snoke said, but Uncle Luke _wanted_ him to be ashamed of it.

Nothing was ever going to be okay. Uncle Luke was a liar. And his parents were liars too, always promising that they would visit, and Ben's heart would soften like candy melting in the sun until the promised dates rolled around and passed, and by the time his mom and dad showed up his heart was hard again, and he didn't even _want_ to see them. His mom's pleading eyes and the way the hope in them would die whenever he turned his face away from hers, his dad's terrible jokes and his nervous laughter and his refusal to ever take anything seriously. In those last few years, Ben didn't know if he hated his parents more when they showed up or when they went away again. Either way, they had left holes in his heart that ached constantly, missing them so much it hurt, whether he wanted to miss them or not.

He hated life at the Jedi temple. Deny this, reject that, empty your thoughts, focus your mind. But on _what_? Nothing that mattered, nothing that was ever going to make anything _better_. He was constantly surrounded by the noise of the other students, and yet he had never felt more alone in his entire life. The simple fact was, no one wanted Ben Solo around. He was too quiet, or too loud. Too mean, or too sensitive from one minute to the next. Too big and awkward, always. Too powerful for his own good. Too much he was always _too much_ , always running too hot or too cold, never good enough, and more than anyone knew how to handle.

Only Supreme Leader wanted him. Only Supreme Leader understood. Only Supreme Leader was there to fill Ben's empty heart until it was brimming over with fervent darkness, and then he showed him how to use it.

_The next time Skywalker goes off-planet, you will lay waste to the Jedi. Leave none alive,_ Snoke had said. And he would never tell Ben anything that wasn't the right course of action, that wouldn't ultimately be for the best, no matter how hard it was, how wrong it seemed. And now the young apprentice is back in that moment, reliving it in lurid detail, breathing in the ashes of the life he left behind.

Part of him wants to hide after he opens the door and lets the Knights of Ren into the temple, but that wasn't what was asked of him. That wouldn't make his master proud. He wants to make _somebody_ proud, just for once in his life. So he doesn't hide. He has a job to do. The Knights are setting the temple on fire, forcing the students to run out into the courtyard, and Ben … Ben is on fire as well. His mind and heart are a cosmic furnace; he's being devoured from the inside out by the hungry wrath of those dark flames, and he doesn't even know it. He mistakes emptiness for wholeness; thinks that somehow his soul is just _supposed_ to be starving, but somehow this terrible act will save him from the agony he's been feeling as long as he can remember. He stands there in the middle of the flying sparks and frightened cries knowing what he has to do, still not wanting to do it. But he promised Supreme Leader. So when Jax rushes up to him yelling, "Why are you just standing there, Solo? We have to fight them! Get your saber out!" he doesn't hesitate.

"Okay," Ben says, and ignites his newly completed red lightsaber, straight through Jax's stomach.

The older boy looks at Ben with dull surprise, his face thrown into shadows by the play of the flames and the lightsaber's glow. Jax's weapon falls useless on the ground. _Pathetic._ The dying boy's hands reach out, clawing, grabbing the front of Ben's robes, and Ben hastily yanks the saber back, the weapon hissing, fighting him, as if it wants to keep killing with or without his help. He wrenches himself out of the other boy's death grip just in time to keep from being dragged down right along with him. In the next moment, Jax's eyes roll back in his head and his reaching hands go loose as he falls hard to the ground.

A second ago he was a person, a person with red hair who laughed through his nose and levitated in the courtyard when he was bored. Now he's just a pile of flesh and cloth, with a smoking hole in his stomach.

Ben didn't quite know what he was expecting to feel the first time he killed another person. But it wasn't this ... this gnawing empty space, this void opening up inside of him, threatening to devour him, howling _what have you done ben what have you done ben what have you done ..._

_You have done well, child,_ Supreme Leader's voice urges him, louder than his doubts, rich with satisfaction. The assurance cuts through Ben's fear and uncertainty, showing him the way. _Feel the power of the Dark Side. Let it in; let it flow through you. Kill them all, Kylo Ren. They would show you no mercy, if they knew what you were. Do to them would they would not hesitate to do to you. Leave the Jedi in pieces, just as your grandfather requested._

The power of darkness floods into the empty spaces inside of the boy. It's what he has come to rely on in secret, over the past few years. It keeps him strong, keeps him alive, keeps him from crumbling into pieces, and if he has to repay it with death than so be it. Supreme Leader has shown him the way and he has to follow it. He is _proud_ to follow it, to be a weapon in his master's hands.

Ben is gone now. He's busy being burned alive on a byre of his own sins. Kylo Ren moves and breathes and goes among the other students like a living blade. His clumsy feet are finally taking him somewhere. His clumsy hands finally seem to know what they're doing. He deals death swiftly, efficiently. Sometimes his fellow students – no, his victims - are able to graze him with their sabers before he cuts them down. He doesn't stop or slow or care. His body functions without any help from his mind, like he's gone away inside of himself and doesn't know if he will ever emerge.

It would have been better for him if he never had.

There just aren't that many of them, his classmates, the other kids he had sparred with, trained with, eaten with, argued with, and never really been one of. They would never have been anything but enemies and enemies are for killing. Even the ones who started training years before he did are felled like trees beneath the crushing strikes of his overpowered lightsaber. None of them ever stood a chance against him, the grandson of Darth Vader. It's all over in what feels like an instant. The shaky, raw lightsaber dies suddenly in his hand and he's flung back into himself and he's dizzy, delirious. The screaming is done, no one left to make a sound, and yet his ears are ringing with their cries. All of his nerves are numb, so he doesn't feel the wounds he sustained, but he senses irreparable damage to himself that is not physical. His own screams of horror claw up from inside his chest and scratch at his throat but they don't make it past his lips.

The other knights are watching him. His master, he knows, is watching as well. Waiting to see what Kylo Ren will do next.

Kylo Ren is ruthless. Kylo Ren is powerful. Kylo Ren is strong. But Ben Solo is a weakling, and a bleeding heart, and a crybaby, and he's crying now, quiet but enormous tears rolling down his blood-and-sweat-and-soot stained cheeks, into his open, gasping mouth, down his neck, the skin slightly singed by the heat of someone's lightsaber. Some dead someone even younger than he. Someone even weaker.

He's seized in a grip of terror, bowed in half beneath it, and he doesn't even know what he's afraid of. All that he can think is that he wants to be _rescued_ from this. He wants someone to come and save him from what he's just done, and that is so pathetic and so wrong that he hates himself and he realizes too late that he never hated the other padawans at all. And now, despite the circle of the Knights of Ren around him, despite his master's constant presence in his mind, he's all alone, and utterly at fault.

Across the vastness of space, a great surge of horror, grief, and dread comes rolling towards him, through him.

_**Why,**_ _Ben?_ Uncle Luke cries out from a star system away. He's in pain, great pain, and Kylo Ren feels that pain roll through his own heart, cracking it like stone. _Ben, please, Ben, just tell me_ _ **why.**_

Another stab of agony, a second later, and this one wounds him even worse because of the anger, no, _fury_ that he feels mingled with it. His mother is crying, screaming, her hands in fists and her heart breaking into a thousand pieces. And Kylo Ren feels the splintering as keenly as if it were his own. _Ben, what happened? What did he make you do? Please, please, tell me you didn't. Please say it's not true, Ben …_

But it is true.

It is true, and it is real, and it is done, and he is never going back.

He can't.

And so what? He hates them, he tells himself. He hates his uncle and his mother, and he hates his father especially, silent because he doesn't have the Force, too weak and foolish to even know that anything's wrong with his son. So much the better, though. He doesn't want them pouring out their hearts inside his head. It's not right that he should have to bear their inconsequential pain. They would have stopped loving him one day anyhow. He's just saved them the time. He has a higher purpose now. He can't let his master down. Can't let his grandfather down. He has a destiny that's greater than any amount of lives.

_It is true. I killed them all,_ he lashes out with thoughts bleeding red, _and I've killed Ben Solo too. Don't bother looking for him … or you'll be next._

And then he drowns their voices, pushes his family out of his head with all the strength that he has left. He slams every door he can find in their faces, his soul screaming. He will never see them again. He never _wants_ to see them again. He switches his lightsaber back on, gripping it fiercely. He clings to the way it feels wild and dangerous in his hand, the way it feels heavier, more important, than his training saber ever did. He attacks the wall in front of him, the flashing of the lightsaber blade as red as blood, turning the structure to rubble. When it's done, he can no longer hear Uncle Luke, can no longer feel his mother. But for some reason, some stupid inexplicable sentimental reason, he sees his father's face, his father's smile, and the knowledge of what he has just sacrificed, of what he has lost forever, feels so much heavier than the power he has gained.

The saber falls from his hand. His newfound strength, his master's praise … they will keep him afloat for the next fifteen years but right now, just for a moment, they don't matter. All that matters is that he knows he has destroyed his family, and in so doing, has destroyed himself. His stomach heaves, and he vomits until there's nothing left inside of him. Nothing but the thought chasing itself around his broken mind.

_**No one is coming to save you, Ben Solo.** _

 

He snaps out of the vision, out of the past, so suddenly he reels and very nearly loses the contents of his stomach yet again. He's curled against the stone wall, his cheek pressed to the clammy cold of it, tears already trickling silently down his cheeks. There are cries trapped inside his chest, just like there were that night, but he can't make a sound, even if he wanted to. This is beyond sorrow. This is a reckoning.

He remembers all their names, all their faces. _Jax. Asharla. Gi'ahli. Draya. Krintian. Rig. Tyla. Ghiro. Corme. Xialie. Mari. Venten. Laz._ He hears their screams echoing in his ears now, somehow amplified by time. He smells their flesh burning. He feels their pain, their fear. Knows what they felt when strange, quiet Ben Solo came bearing down on them with wild eyes and murderous hands.

This is his penance, or a start to it. He will never be able to be punished enough.

This is a mourning for those he slaughtered, coming fifteen years too late.

This is also a mourning for Ben Solo, the sweet and shy and awkward boy who Kylo Ren trapped in the darkness and left there to burn.

“We did go looking for you, you know,” he hears his father telling him, his voice low, breaking through his son's torment as gently as he knows how. “We all did. Your mom. Me. Chewie. Lando. Luke. We searched every star system for months, but …” The ghost pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is raw with sorrow. “We couldn't find you anywhere. He'd taken you too far away to reach. And eventually we just ...” his father pauses and it seems like he has to force the rest of the words out. “We just kind of told ourselves that you were gone. And after that, nothing made any sense anymore. Nothing mattered. When I lost you, Ben, I … it was like every star in the whole damn galaxy went dark for me.”

Kylo shakes his head, numbly, unable to reconcile those words with what he knows is true: the burden he was to them, the heavy weight to carry. The pain and suffering he caused his parents long before he ever turned to the Dark Side.

“Why?” he manages to ask, the word choked out of him. He opens his eyes, looks helplessly up at his father's ghost through the tangled fall of his own dark hair. That face hurts him, grown once again familiar, once again a sight he looks forward to seeing. “ _Why_ would any of you look for me? You could have been rid of me forever. You _should_ have been rid of me forever. You and Mom and everybody. You never wanted me in the first place so why ...”

“Huh? _What?_ ” his father's disbelief cuts through his feeble questions. “Never wanted … what the hell are you even talking about, Ben?”

So now it's out there, in the open between them, this ugly thing. That night, that memory that he's used to cut his heart open so many times, hoping it would eventually scar over and stop hurting, but it never did. He finds he doesn't want to speak it out loud. Doesn't want to hear his father confirm what he already knows. Doesn't want Obi-Wan Kenobi, keeping to himself on the other side of the courtyard, to see him like this, to know the truth that his namesake should never have existed at all. But it's too late now.

“It's okay,” he hears himself saying, his voice subdued. “You don't have to keep doing this. You don't have to keep trying to fix your mistake.”

His father tilts his head, frowning deeply. “My mistake?”

How can he still be so dishonest, to pretend not to understand? “ _ **Me**_ ,” Kylo says through gritted teeth.

There's confusion on his father's face, and then his hazel eyes flash with sudden comprehension and his lips press together in a thin line before he summons his composure and speaks again. “Where did you hear something like that, Ben?” Han Solo asks him in a measured voice. “Who ever said that you were a … a mistake?” Suddenly his father looks absolutely furious. “Did _Snoke_ tell you that?”

“Only after you already had.” And then it just comes flooding out of him, the words stumbling and halting, dragged out by necessity, not by force. He just can't hold onto this anymore. It's too much for him. So he spills that awful memory, the night he sleepily stumbled across his parents arguing over what was to be done about him, about how they just weren't ready for him, never would have been ready for him, should have had a different child instead …

“You were never supposed to hear that, Ben,” his dad says quietly.

“Well, I did. I heard everything.”

“But you didn't understand it. Snoke made sure you didn't understand it. You weren't a mistake, Ben,” Han Solo tells him, angry and intense. “You were a surprise. A _good_ surprise.”

Kylo shakes his head, exhausted. These are only words, just different words that amount to the same thing: his entire existence was a folly.

“Listen, kid, you don't get to think like that,” his father tells him fiercely. “A mistake is something to regret. Something you wish hadn't happened. Do you think your mother or I wished we didn't have you?”

_How could you not?_ But he can't say that. This is all just … so much. Too much. He's breaking under the weight of it, and what he needs, the only thing that could possibly make it better …

He just looks up, gazing at his father, knowing that his eyes are begging, pathetic, but he can't help it. It's all that he can do. He has no shame in this, just like when he was a child. He can feel every moment of it now, every time that he was distressed or confused or frightened and he looked up at Han Solo and waited for him to say the words that would make everything okay.

“Never, Ben, no way.”

He sucks in his breath. “But I ...”

“You were the best thing that ever happened to me,” his father cuts in, in that dark tone that just dares Ben to try and deny it.

But how can he be the best thing that ever happened to Han Solo when he was also the _last_ thing that ever happened to him?

Uncomprehending shock spreads through him, and it must show on his face, because his father sighs, and gives him the faintest of smiles. “I know it's hard for you to believe, Ben. But it's the truth, I promise. Obi-Wan and I could give you another memory, maybe. Show you the day your mom and I found out we were going to have you. How excited we were. Scared as hell, but happy. We did want you, Ben, we _always_ wanted you, and we still want you, and I could find a way to show you evidence of that, but dammit ... I wish you could just believe it. That you could just believe _me_.” Han Solo is clearly hurt.

“That's the problem,” Kylo whispers, wanting to take that hurt away. “I do believe you … but I can't _understand_.”

His dad stops hovering, and comes to sit down beside him, companionable and close. “You don't have to understand, Ben. You just need to know that your mom and I have always loved you, and we always will, no matter what. We just wanted you back. We still just want you back. And if I could go back and do it over again? I would. All of it. I just … ” The ghost of Han Solo closes his eyes for a moment. His arms are folded across his legs as he leans forward, his hands folded, fingers restless, and Kylo realizes that he's adopted a similar posture without even thinking about it.

His father opens his eyes again and speaks, evidently struggling through the words. “If I had another chance, I would try to do it better, kid. Be there for you more. Keep you safe, somehow. Tell you every day, and never let you doubt, that you were the most important thing in the universe to me. But even if it didn't work … even if everything happened just this way, even if we ended up right where we did, right here … I'd still do it, Ben. For you. Anything.”

Kylo is so overwhelmed he's surprised he's even still in a physical shape; he feels like an imploding star, collapsing under the weight of himself. What his father is telling him is incomprehensible; he can't possibly deserve that kind of devotion. His own two hands, the hands that twist and tremble in his lap now … he _killed_ his father with those hands. And still …

“Even after … even now?” Kylo whispers, knowing that the answer cannot possibly be in the affirmative.

His dad looks over at him, and instead of looking sad, he grins. “Even now, kid.”

It's like being gut-shot all over again, but worse. For a second Kylo physically can't breathe. “That doesn't … make any … sense …” he whispers. “That's … that's … crazy. That's _impossible_.”

“Maybe,” Han Solo says, a sparkle in his hazel eyes. “But it's true.”

It's true. It's real.

Kylo Ren is starting to hyperventilate. He sees it all, the scope of his sins laid out before him like a killing field. He sees minds invaded and worlds burning and hears screams and pleas for mercy, he feels the weight of countless lives on his hands, the stain of all that blood that will never rinse clean, and it was all done for a _lie._

Supreme Leader had said that love would fade like light. But the light has never left Kylo Ren no matter how many terrible things he did to try and make it leave. It still burns on inside his heart. And love? That hasn't faded either. Because here his father sits beside him, beyond years, beyond betrayal, beyond death. 

Han Solo sits here, loving the son who killed him, tearing the fabric of his universe apart.

Kylo sobs out loud, buries his face in his hands. He can't bear to look at his father's face right now. He isn't worthy to. There isn't a name for the particular kind of shameful sorrow, of regretful horror, that's sweeping through him, setting fire to everything that's left to catch it.

He flashes back to all the times he was a child and thought that he should tell his mom and dad everything, all about the scary things that were going on inside his head, thought about all the times he considered abandoning all his dark dreams and confessing everything to Uncle Luke. He thinks about how the voice that was Snoke shushed him every time and told him that they would never understand, that they would never be able to love him again if they knew what was going on inside of him. He told Ben how little his family mattered; how fickle their love and loyalty were, how transitory, how insignificant. That his mother and father would never stand by their son if they knew everything about his tainted soul. After the slaughter at the temple, he had fully accepted that truth. But it hadn't been the truth at all. _They looked for me … they came after me … he told me that they wouldn't want me after what I did … but they wanted me back the whole time and I …_

He struggles for breath as it hits him, the impact of everything he's done, and who he's done it for.  

_Supreme Leader is lying to me. Using me. Crushing me. And using **me** to crush my family. To hurt my mother. To hunt down Uncle Luke. To kill_   _…_

His father's words, his father's face, swirl and run wild through his mind, tormenting him with the bright shine of their truth. Everything that Supreme Leader has ever asked or ordered Kylo to do has hurt him. He thought that was just how it was supposed to be. But now … if Supreme Leader had to lie to keep his loyalty … had been lying to him the whole time …

He gasps for breath, his lungs hurting, his mind on the verge of snapping, the Force swirling around him and he can't tell what he's supposed to do with it, what he can possibly do to make this better. There is nothing he can do to make this better.

_Oh no no oh no no no what have I done what have I done I'm sorry I'm sorry oh no no no no no DAD I'm so sorry_

Stars are falling and crashing inside of Kylo Ren, tearing and smashing and burning through everything he thought he knew. There are fractures in the sky above and the ground beneath him, and the light pours in and it stings and it  ** _hurts._** But for the first time in years or maybe ever, he can see.

Snoke had filled Ben Solo up with darkness and then blamed him for it. Caused him pain and then offered a cure. Fed him on half-truths and misunderstandings and promises of power, keeping him starving for any scrap of knowledge that would be thrown his way. He had blocked out the light and told Ben that darkness was all that he would ever have. And then he made that come true … no. He had made _Ben_ make it come true.

_He told me I needed to kill the other kids, and I did it. He told me I needed to kill my dad. And I **did** it. _

“Ben, hey,” his father says gently, close to his ear. “It's okay. It's okay.”

But it's not okay. It will never be okay again.

Kylo feels the Force surging in him, around him. He can't control the urge to destroy something, and he doesn't need to control it. There's no one left living here, no one around who he can hurt. There's a rumbling in the ground, and all the loose stones of the Sith ruins start shaking, rattling, cracking and crumbling apart. He closes his eyes and lets the storm roll through him. _The stars went dark for me too, Dad,_ he thinks, wildly. He's half-crazed with his rage, his grief, his guilt. But he doesn't know how to help himself or anyone else. He never has. All he knows how to do is break and destroy things, so he closes his eyes and smashes the ruins around him, shattering every stone.

He doesn't know how long it takes; he loses track of time. He ends up on his knees among a pile of rubble, a rising cloud of dust settling over him, turning his black clothes and his hair and the backs of his hands all gray.

He looks up to see his father and Obi-Wan both standing there, looking down at him with worry and compassion. Waiting for him to say something, to do something? What do they want from him?

Of course, he already knows what they want. He just doesn't know if he's strong enough to do it.

But he wants to _try_.

There are only so many blows a human being can take before shattering completely. He has been breaking all his life. Kylo ... Ben … whatever name they call him by, he is in _fragments._ And these ghosts, in spite of everything, stand here willing to gather up those fragments. They stand with him, these old ghosts who love the unlovable. They stand there ready to receive his pain, and he has so, so much of it to give.

“I'm lost,” he whispers, his voice itself a ghost, ragged and pale as it pulls from his lips. “So … completely … lost. I can't see a thing in this darkness. There's nothing … _nothing_ inside of me. N-nothing but aching … and emptiness. I ...” His tongue fumbles and fresh tears struggle at his eyelids, but he squeezes them shut tighter, screws up his face and his fists. “I hate this,” he goes on, poisonous words, treasonous words, trembling on his tongue and spilling over into the air. “I hate ...” He's getting too wound up to even find a way to finish that sentence. There are so many ways he could choose to conclude it. _I hate … this place. I hate … the First Order. I hate Supreme Leader Snoke. I hate what I am. I hate what I've done. I hate …_ “Myself,” he chokes out. “I. Hate. Myself.”

For what he's done. For what he has failed to do. Everything he is, he despises. He cannot even find comfort in the Force because he knows, he knows that all this time he has been using it in all the wrong ways, for all the wrong reasons.

And yet, it has not left him.

Just like the ghosts.

“Don't do that, Ben,” his father murmurs, reaching out a hand to him. But they can't touch. The last kind touch that he will ever know is the feel of his father's calloused hand sliding off his cheek as the dying man toppled off that bridge and into the abyss below. Ben Solo will never feel the touch of his father's hand again and it's …

“ … all my fault,” he whispers. “It's all my fault.” He can do nothing but stare, haunted, grieved.

“No. Not all of it. You were deceived, Ben,” Obi-Wan speaks up gently, but firmly. “You were a small boy when it began, too young even to speak, let alone think for yourself. That there is anything left of you at all is a testament to the power of the Force in you, and to the strength of your heart, the goodness of which you are still capable. If you only _try_.”

His chest could explode with how hard his heart is beating. He half-wishes it would.

“You did not have a choice when you were younger, Ben,” Obi-Wan continues, his voice coaxing. “But you have one now.”

“What's it gonna be, kid?” his father asks him.

“I just want … to be done … with _hurting,_ ” Kylo Ren says.

“Yourself, Ben?” Obi-Wan asks very softly. “Or other people?”

He blinks up at the ghosts, smiles bitterly. Clarity is oh-so painful. “It's the same thing, isn't it?”

“Well,” says Han, a small smile breaking like the dawn across his face. “Guess that answers that question.”

Kylo opens his mouth to say something to his father. He doesn't even know what.

He never finds out.

A voice booms in his head, so close and real and sudden and intimate that he flinches.

_Kylo Ren, my apprentice. Come to me. **Now.**_

Horror and sickness creep through his veins like poison. It takes everything he has not to scream. Supreme Leader's voice is as smooth and scaly as ever, a clawed thing that latches into his mind and linger there. There's no sign that his master is aware of what has transpired, of what's going on inside of Kylo Ren. If his master were truly in his head, he would be able to feel it, he knows that much. But Supreme Leader is powerful, and has his secrets. He could know that something is amiss with his apprentice even if he doesn't have all the details.

But regardless of what he knows now, he will soon know everything if Kylo Ren can't keep himself together.

_Yes, master,_ Kylo thinks back, and he can't even worry about whether his reluctance is palpable. He can't worry about anything at all. 

“You needn't go to him,” Obi-Wan says, worry in his blue eyes. Little conviction in his tone.

“You know I do,” Kylo answers softly. Obi-Wan is wrong; in this, Kylo doesn't have a choice. His heart may have changed, his allegiance may have changed … he can't think about that right now … but his circumstances have not. There is nowhere he can run from Snoke, nowhere he can hide. Not yet.  

“Just … tell him what he wants to hear,” his father urges. “Don't let him get inside your head, Ben. Do whatever you have to do to protect yourself.” 

Kylo nods, but he doesn't see how he can possibly …

“The Force is strong with you,” Obi-Wan reminds him. “It will be your ally. You must draw on the power of the Light, not the Dark, for this. Snoke will not anticipate it and he will not be able to thwart it. Use the Light to keep him from you. You have it within you, Ben, you have only to use it.”

The old man makes it sound natural, easy, but Kylo has no illusions that it will be. He worries his lower lip with his teeth, clenches and unclenches his fists. His skin looks pale and vulnerable in the thin sunlight that filters through the jungle trees, and he reaches for his gloves, coats his hands in darkness once again.

“He's afraid of you, Ben,” his father tells him. “You know that now, don't you?”

He _doesn't_ know that with any certainty, because it goes against everything that he's been taught to believe, but he supposes still that it must be true. There is no other explanation that makes any sense.

“Dammit, Ben, answer me,” Han Solo growls.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say that you won't let him get to you,” Han Solo says. “That you'll remember the truth about who you are. That you won't … that you won't let him take you away again. Please, Ben … don't let him take you away from me. I can't lose you again, kid.”

Kylo Ren closes his eyes. The words echo through him like blows, like he's being beaten into a shape he thought he'd lost. His throat aches with unspoken, unspeakable words. There's something in him, an urge to just tell his father everything he wants to hear, to say _I won't let you lose me, I'll never leave you again, Dad_ but the words don't come. He is not worthy to promise his father anything. All that he can do is try his best to survive.

“I have to go,” he whispers to the ghosts.

“Just as long as you come back,” his father says.

Kylo Ren nods. It's the closest thing to a promise that he can give. There's no guarantee at all that he can keep it. But for his dad's sake, he'll try.

As he turns to go, picking up his mask with one hand, his father calls his name.

“Ben … wait.”

He turns back toward the ghosts, fixes on his father's face. “Yes?”

Han Solo's face is a storm of emotions, his eyes turbulent with the strength of his feelings. “There's one more thing … something I want you to remember. Something that Snoke can't take away from you. Something even you couldn't destroy.”

“What is it?”

A silence. A shuddering breath from a dead man.

“I love you,” Han Solo says finally, his voice gruff and heavy with the weight of that love.

Kylo draws a shuddering breath of his own. Something that was horribly broken inside of him knits painfully but perfectly back together in the space of a single moment.

“I know,” he whispers.

And goes to meet his fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there has been an awakening ... of Kylo Ren's conscience. this chapter gave me hell. i love you all <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He won't cry out. He won't cry out. He won't cry out.

Surely Snoke's audience chamber is no darker or more frigid than it ever has been before. And yet it certainly seems that way when Kylo Ren enters, when he's walking the great length of the black hall to the spot where Supreme Leader sits bathed in a sickly, milky glow.

His heart is pounding and his stomach is churning and all he wants to do is turn and run. It's surreal now to remember how he used to feel when he entered his master's presence: the fear was always there, yes … but the longing, the craving, the overwhelming _need_ for Snoke's attention and approval had driven him forward despite all his misgivings, had washed all of his instincts for self-preservation away. It hadn't mattered what happened, what was done to him in the dark and the cold of that vast and empty room, because he knew, he believed, it was going to make him stronger. Better.

And now that he knows that was all wrong, that _he_ was all wrong, he's terrified. He feels like a child walking defenseless into the lair of a monster.

 _You don't need to be scared,_ he tells himself, firmly, bitterly. _After all, you're a monster too._

A monster now bowing to another, greater monster, clinging to the shreds of darkness in which he has wrapped himself, hoping it will be enough to temporarily disguise the glow of whatever light has taken hold of him.

His scarred and tear-stained face has been hidden away behind the cold metal of his mask. His tender, healing skin has been wrapped up safely in the blackness of his clothes. His fury, his remorse, his treachery, have all been locked away deep inside of himself, hidden as well as he can possibly hide them. What he could not hide he has redirected, taken and shaped into weapons. If Snoke touches Kylo Ren, if he enters his mind, all he will be able to feel is darkness, never suspecting how it longs to be unleashed on him. Whatever future there is for Kylo Ren, whatever future there can possibly be, depends on this.

His father begged him to come back from this, and he didn't just mean come back alive. He meant _come back with light still inside of you_ , and so somehow, someway, that's what Kylo has to try to do: hide the influence of the light from Supreme Leader while never letting himself lose sight of it entirely. What will happen after this, he has no idea, but making it out of this audience with his newfound, hard-earned clarity intact … it's the least that he can do. It's a start, at least, towards something better, if such a thing exists.

“You called for me, Supreme Leader?” His voice is reverent but distorted through the vocal modulator, sounding so much more sure and strong than he feels, and as always he's grateful for the comfort it provides.

 **I had hoped that we could finally dispense with this tedious exercise, Kylo Ren,** Snoke says directly into his head, staring unblinkingly down at his apprentice.

_Master?_

**Your mask, Kylo Ren. It is a child's toy, and you are not a child anymore.** **Dear boy, surely we know each other well enough by now that you do not feel the need to hide your true face from me.**

His heart stutters briefly in his chest, but he rallies quickly. _Of course, master. I thought only to show respect ..._

 **Well, then, my apprentice, you can show your respect by never hiding your face from me again.** The tone of Snoke's thoughts is not angry, not cruel. His manner is almost tender, but that only serves to make it more repellent. Having been reminded what true caring is, this hollow imitation of it makes Kylo Ren feel sick, as he wonders how could possibly have ever fallen for this. And even now, even with all he knows, there's a sick part of himself that wants to believe he _can_ trust Snoke.

He crushes that thought by remembering what his own face, the face that Snoke so badly wants to see, looks like. He traces the lines of his father's features in his own until it hurts, until his heart is scraped raw with the knowledge of what his loyalty to Snoke has cost him.

It works almost too well. Dangerous ideas flit through Kylo's consciousness, vague notions that his face might be the last thing his master ever sees. _I can't think like that, not right now, I'm not strong enough._ He put aside the dreams of murder, calms his racing heart as best he can, and removes the mask, exposes his face: the nasty scar and vulnerable mouth and his tangled hair, which he tosses out of his eyes in a gesture that he realizes too late borders on defiance. To counteract it, he bows deeper, tucking his mask beneath his arm.

"Rise," Supreme Leader says, aloud and seeming placated. Kylo Ren isn't fooled, not this time; he knows there is something dark and potentially deadly running beneath the surface of this requested audience, and if he doesn't play his part exactly right then he could lose everything - and everything means something much different than it did the last time he stood before Lord Snoke. All that he has to lose now is much less than he had before - just ghosts and impossible dreams and a nebulous future that could very well mean his death at the hands of the Resistance - and yet it feels more worth protecting than the future that Snoke kept promising him. _Because_ _I'm_ _**choosing**_ _it,_ he realizes. _Because it's my will._

Kylo rises to his feet at his master's word, but takes care to keep his body language as subdued and respectful as possible. As far as Supreme Leader Snoke is concerned, Kylo Ren doesn't have a will of his own, and that it how it must appear.

"How are you finding your final training thus far, Kylo Ren?" Snoke asks him, after allowing an uncomfortably long and deep silence to settle between them. He leans forward, shadows prowling across his face that seem to move independently of any light source. "Is it what you had expected it to be?"

It's too soon to breathe a sigh of relief, but it's tempting. Of course this was to come. Kylo had known that crueler, more inventive challenges would eventually be thrown his way; battling his way through the other Knights of Ren was hardly taxing enough to be the final, long-overdue milestone that would complete his apprenticeship. He doesn't know what to expect, as Lord Snoke will surely have done his best to make things interesting, but he's sure that he can face whatever tests Snoke has concocted. They can't be any worse than what he's already been enduring emotionally. As long as he gets to hurt something, he'll be just fine.

"I confess,” he says, with a characteristic melding of humility and arrogance, “it has not been as challenging as I anticipated, master."

Supreme Leader's laugh is a startling thing, rumbly as a cavern cave-in, and somehow every bit as ominous despite his evident amusement. "I thought not. Now, do I sense correctly that Vekko Ren is no longer with us?”

Kylo smirks to conceal his discomfort with the nearness of that question, how close it skates to things he must keep secret. “He was insubordinate. And weak.” _And incomprehensibly stupid._

Supreme Leader sighs, folding and unfolding his pale hands with apparent restlessness, but the slight smile does not quite leave his twisted face. “A pity. To have come so far and worked so hard for so many years, only to lose everything now.” His black eyes glitter down at his apprentice.

A slight chill runs down Kylo's spine. His lip curls in dismissive disgust. “If Vekko could not manage to fight effectively, he had no right to continue living.”

Snoke nods. “You are, of course, correct in that judgment, my apprentice. But I know that you are tired of these petty little skirmishes. They are hardly worthy of a warrior of your skill and power, but I did want to ease you in, after your injuries and your ordeal.”

 _You can't trust him,_ Kylo warns himself, but this is something that Snoke has done before; in the long years of Kylo's apprenticeship, Snoke has used both violence and gentleness with equal generosity as varying intervals.

“I'm grateful, Supreme Leader,” he murmurs, inclining his head.

There is a smile in Snoke's voice when he speaks next. “You believe that you are ready, then, for the next step? For trials that will test you as you have never been tested before, in ways that you have never imagined?"

Kylo takes a deep breath, stands up straighter, willing to say anything to get the hell out of this room. If he can just pass through the rest of these trials, then he can worry about what's to happen after. "Yes, Supreme Leader. Thanks to your long years of training and guidance, I believe I'm ready. I _know_ that I'm ready.”

"Hmm." Supreme Leader steeples long, pale fingers beneath his chin and leans back in his chair, almost slumping, and his already low voice drops even lower, like rocks grating against each other. "Well, Kylo Ren ... as much as it pains me to say it … I disagree."

… _what?_

Kylo can't stop his shock from showing on his face, but at least it makes sense that he would be shocked in this situation. _After everything I've given him, after how hard I've fought, it still isn't enough?_ "F-forgive me, master, but ... may I ask what has prompted your … disappointment in me?"

 **Oh, my boy,** says Supreme Leader, invading Kylo's mind with his voice again, dragging the words out like nails on skin, making them sting, making them hurt. **Let us not play out this farce any longer. I have known you since you were an infant. You cannot hide your weakness from me. I** _ **know**_ **your secret.**

_No. Oh, no._

This can't be happening. Snoke can't possibly know, especially not about what just happened in the ruins; it's all been too carefully hidden; Kylo Ren is good at what he does, dammit. _I would have felt him poking around in my head, I know I would have …_ Kylo holds himself very still, utterly silent, trying so hard not to give anything away ...

**You have given everything away, Kylo Ren. My foolish boy. When I told you that I had been keeping up with your progress, what did you think I meant?**

Snoke gestures, flicking something out of his sleeve, and there's a holo floating in the palm of his hand. With the press of a button, the image is projected up into the air, enormous, inescapable: a downward view of Kylo Ren's quarters.

He's stunned, horrified, to see himself, crumpled on the floor, huddled against the ruined wall, looking small and helpless and disheveled, speaking apparently to thin air. The ghosts don't show up on the hologram, but the recording has sound, and it's blatantly obvious who Kylo Ren is talking to.

_"You. Are. Dead.”_

The silence where his father's reply would be.

“ _You … should … be …gone. I don't … understand … why you're not gone.”_

The blood in Kylo's veins goes frigid as the holo plays on for interminable moments, revealing his frailties in agonizing detail. He hates the sound of his own voice, the way it shudders and pleads and breaks. The way it's so _obvious,_ to him and to Snoke, no doubt, that all he had wanted all along was for his father to give him a reason to turn on the life he'd been living, to betray his master. Kylo Ren looks at himself and he hates what he sees: this fragile thing who has been so hurt that all he knows how to do is hurt others and he always picks the ones who don't deserve it. Suddenly he feels everything too keenly, too sharply. He can't bear the cold of the audience chamber, and his eyes sting and water. He bites down hard on his lower lip as he watches himself speak to his father's ghost, watches himself argue, dredge up old memories, betray his master, weaken and break.

Everything that has transpired in his quarters since he returned from Starkiller, Supreme Leader has been observing, all along. Supreme Leader _knows._ And the fact that he didn't use the Force to learn it makes it all so much worse. It was a common surveillance device that betrayed Kylo Ren's deepest secrets to his master, and he never even _noticed_ it. How could he have been so naive? So trusting? So completely, mind-numbingly stupid?

He has given everything _,_ all of himself, up at Supreme Leader's requests. He has betrayed himself, ruined himself, threw away everyone who ever loved him, sold his soul and washed his hands with his father's blood, all for this creature who never trusted him or valued him in the first place.

He's too angry and too scared and too stunned to even do so much as scream.

Supreme Leader flicks off the holo as suddenly as he flicked it on, but the recorded sound of Kylo Ren's brokenhearted sobbing seems to hang and echo in the empty space, lingering, taunting like no other sound ever has in here before. The silence that falls when it fades is as long and dark as any of the shadows in the room.

If he had been caught out like this even a few days ago, Kylo Ren knows what he would have done. He would have thrown himself on his master's mercy, begging forgiveness and swearing to do better, to _be_ better, to do anything and everything to make up for his weakness, his failure. His constantly clinging _light_.

He won't do that now. Not now that he knows the truth. Not after his grandfather and the meadow, not after Obi-Wan telling him he has a choice. Not after his father telling him he loves him, even now.

He tells himself that he will never bow before Snoke again. Not even to save his own life.

That's what he tells himself, anyway.

In this, as in so many other things, he may not have a choice.

Snoke is shaking his head now, slowly, sympathetically. “Oh, Kylo Ren. You are still so very troubled. Still trapped and made small by the follies, the lies of your past. Still so very _torn_ between the dark side and the light. I am sorry that you continue to struggle. I have seen how hard you fight to remain on the side of the darkness. I know that at its core, your heart is true."

Kylo says nothing, just looks at the floor and clenches his fists. Every word is a trap and he has no intention of being caught again. Supreme Leader knows about the conversations that took place in his quarters, but he doesn't know about the dream of Anakin Skywalker, and he doesn't know what's passed today. Doesn't know how much his apprentice's heart has changed.

“Your nature, your potential, the line you walk between the dark and light … that has always been your strength,” Snoke is saying now. “But it is only a strength if you control it, rather than letting it control you. This excess of light will poison you, Kylo Ren, if you allow it. You must fight against it, or everything that you have worked so hard for, everything that you have sacrificed will have been in vain. Can you not see how weak and feeble your father's shade has made you, in the space of only a few weeks? Can you not feel your power waning?"

He feels no such thing, he's startled to find in that moment. Yes, in some ways he's weaker, more unstable and uncertain than ever before. But the Force is still as strong with him as ever. He was born with that; it's part of him, and nothing could ever take it away. But he's still not powerful enough to take on Snoke by himself. Or maybe he's just not brave enough. Still, he would never get away with it, not now. _You will need allies,_ he can hear Obi-Wan saying, but right now he only has himself. Which leaves him in a very dangerous position, because Kylo Ren is a very dangerous ally.

He doesn't think that he can trust himself. He doesn't think that he can count on himself not to fall back into complete darkness again, and he can't let that happen, can't let his father down now, can't betray himself like that. Ben Solo is still trapped somewhere inside of him, not quite dead, depending on him. But Kylo Ren is steeped in darkness and he doesn't know any other way to be. Someone has to teach him, and he has to live through this so that he can get free and find someone who will show him a way to be better, to be stronger, to put the torn-up pieces of himself back together in a way that makes sense. Because he has no idea how.

He doesn't want to do what he's about to do. But in his heart he knows that he will have to pass through yet more shadows if he is to have any hope of seeing light again. And Supreme Leader is looking down at him, expectant, disappointed, and waiting for a response, for the groveling and pleading and promises that he's grown accustomed to from his apprentice.

**Would you really throw away everything that I have given you, all that I have shown you … for a memory?**

He shudders.

It appears that there will be a farce playing out here, after all. It's just not the one that Supreme Leader expects.

Kylo Ren breathes in deeply, and gathers his thoughts around him, everything he's learned, everything he's been told, even the things he doesn't believe. _You are stronger than Snoke is. Your parents always wanted you. Your grandfather didn't mean this. Snoke is using you, lying to you. Your mom still wants you back. Your dad still loves you. There's light in you and it's going to get you through this. Don't be afraid._

He _is_ afraid, of course. Utterly and completely and totally terrified. But he cannot let the fear control him, or he'll be lost, all over again.

So he drops his mask, letting it hit the floor with a dull thud. He makes a mask of his face instead, and hits his knees at Supreme Leader's feet, hunching over until his hair drags on the floor and his nose is nearly touching the cold stone.

"Please," he whispers, letting his voice tremble, using the fear instead of letting the fear use him. "Supreme Leader, I've been so foolish. So confused. I … I lost sight of my purpose, of your will. I made my grandfather's mistake, let sentimentality overwhelm me, only for a moment. I was weak, I was wrong, but I know that now. I … I betrayed you in my thoughts and I am so, so sorry. Please, master ... I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, but if you could ..." He shudders with the risk of what he's about to ask but he shoves the words out of his mouth anyway. "Please ... once more … will you show me ... the Dark Side?"

"So eager," Snoke says, and there's a displacement of air and then the Supreme Leader is standing over him, his long, slender form blocking out the pale and feeble light. Kylo can feel Snoke looming there above his prostrate form, casting him into shadow. He feels cold, so _cold_. The floor is punishingly hard beneath him until, with a sickening suddenness, it's not there anymore. The very ground has been ripped away ... no, _he_ has.

Kylo Ren is hanging in the air, all the way up near the chamber's impossibly high ceiling. The bottom drops out of his stomach and his head swims; Supreme Leader looks so small down there on the floor. Kylo struggles for breath and tries to keep his wits about him; he doesn't know what Supreme Leader is planning to do with him next. If Snoke simply lets him drop, he'll be able to use the Force in order to land harmlessly, but it's just as possible that Snoke will hurl him against the wall or the ceiling with enough force to shatter every bone in his body. Kylo's seen him do it before, to unfortunate others who disappointed him too many times. It just depends on how angry Snoke really is with him, how willing he is to sacrifice almost three decades of work turning him into Kylo Ren and keeping him on the Dark Side, if Snoke believes that Kylo's training can still be salvaged. He can only hope that Snoke still considers him too valuable a tool to simply break in a fit of rage.

 _Then again,_ Kylo reminds himself, heart beating fast, feet dangling hundreds of meters above the ground, _fits of rage aren't really Supreme Leader's style._ He's known about Kylo's talks with the ghosts for weeks now and only summoned him today. Snoke has a plan, that much is sure, and Kylo has to go along with it, follow it to the letter, or else it will be the end of him.

Snoke takes the third option and lowers Kylo to the ground … with extreme, deliberate slowness, leaving the threat unspoken that he could crush him at any moment. When Kylo's feet touch the floor again, he knows better than to feel any relief. This is just the beginning. He still hangs his head, trying to look thoroughly chastened, but he's not going to get a reprieve, and he knows it. He doesn't want it.

"Very well, Kylo Ren," Snoke says at long last, considering him with those black-hole eyes. "Since you seem to want it, and to need it, so very badly, I will remind you once more of the power of the darkness. The power that you have worked your whole life to attain, that you will lose forever if you continue down the path of sentimentality. Just try to remember, as you learn this lesson, my apprentice ... you asked for this."

Kylo doesn't even have time to brace himself before the pain hits. It's a pain he's felt before at his master's hands, but this time he _knows_ it's decidedly not for his own good, and that knowledge makes it so much harder to bear. He knows the pain is an illusion, that his body isn't being damaged, it just feels like it is. But the knowledge doesn't help; the pain's still too real. He's on his knees again in moments, screaming, wrapping his arms around himself to try and stop the feeling like his body is actually being ripped into pieces.

And it's not just physical pain that Supreme Leader deals in.

Snoke floods and fills his head with images, all of them memories, all of them true, things that actually happened. The worst things, the deepest hurts, the oldest wounds. The sight of his father's back, the closing of the door. A thousand ships crossing the sky, none of them the Falcon. Days turning into a week without so much as a word. Nights he tried and failed to stay up waiting for his mother to get home. The sound of laughter directed at him and the feeling of eyes looking through him, away from him, passing over him.

… _**no one ever liked you no one ever will what is there to like ugly boy awful boy weak coward traitor KILLER …**_

He wrestles with the memories, with the words of the darkness, spoken in his own voice. That trick won't work on him, he knows better now.

_No, that's not true, my dad loves me, my mom loves me, they always did._

… _**then why weren't they there why didn't they listen why didn't they know why didn't they SAVE YOU …**_

_They tried, I know they tried!_

… _**they failed and now you're paying the price, you will be paying the price for as long as you live …**_

He shakes his head furiously while pain beats on inside of it. Doubt is creeping in, clawing at the edges of him, searching out weaknesses.

_You won't find any. I'm stronger than you._

… _**no you're not you're weak and pathetic and you're a fool and everything you do is a mistake and no one will ever look at you and like what they see and nobody will ever love you …**_

_My father loves me._

… _**your father is DEAD … YOU KILLED HIM.**_

He screams then, choking on the pain and the horror as it just hits him all over again; every time he's forced to relive it, to remember, it gets worse. Snoke is still torturing him, but isn't in his mind anymore; the struggle that's taking place is purely his own, his dark side snarling at his light, and he knows with a sinking of his heart which one is the stronger of the two in this moment. The darkness is right. The darkness is telling him the truth.

His father is dead. He killed him. And while his father may have forgiven him, while his mother may yet forgive him, he knows with bleak certainty that he will never, ever be able to forgive himself.

 _Don't think about that right now,_ he tries to coach himself, panicky, back from the edge. _When this is over you can talk to him again; he'll make this okay._

… _**stupid idiot ben nothing is ever going to make this okay you don't DESERVE to be okay idiot stupid ben you're so damn stupid …**_

_Yes, I've been stupid, and I've done everything wrong but I can still make things better, I can still make things right …_

… _**no you can't how could you hope to do that someone like you it's too late you've done too much wrong there's no way to make this right you'll always just as wrong and broken as you are now …**_

_No, no, I can be more, I know I can. Dad and Obi-Wan said I can, my grandfather said I can, my mom thinks there's still hope for me, they can't all be wrong._

… _**oh yes they can ben they don't know you like I know you …**_

The darkness is showing him things that he's done. Making him do them again and again inside his head. Taking him through the murderous rampages of his past, painting him with the blood of each of his victims, from Jax, his first, to Vekko Ren, his latest, and in between, there is Han Solo, his eyes full of shock and pain. No words spoken, just the condemnation of that final absolution, the impossible contradiction of the gentle hand against his son's face. His killer's face.

Darkness is closing in around Kylo Ren. His body is still on the floor, wracked and twisting in pain, cries quivering in the air. His mind is quaking, threatening to crumble. _Use the light,_ he tells himself, frantic. _Let it in and use it._

He reaches out, fumbling in the encroaching darkness, feeling black flames licking at the edges of his heart as he strains for the light. He feels himself faltering. He can't shrink from the pain, from the wickedness, from the cruelty and the callousness and the rage. It's grown too much a part of him, it beats inside his bloodstream. He cannot rid himself of the darkness any more than he could ever rid himself of the light, and this revelation smothers him, weakens him, sends him falling hard into despair. The darkness has been a part of him so long that he doesn't know how to live without it. It's possible that he was born with that darkness inside of him. _I can never be what they want me to be,_ he realizes, his heart breaking all over again. _I'm not a hero. I'm not a Jedi. I'm not_ _ **good**_ _. And I can never be._

But then he hears his dad telling him he could do anything. _You could save the galaxy, Ben!_ Han Solo says, hope shining in his eyes, and Kylo Ren doesn't believe that, not for a second, but his dad believes it and that means something, doesn't it? That's important, isn't it?

So he tries again, stumbling forward, trying to hold on to whatever good things he can find. He gathers the splintered pieces of his long-lost family around him: the memory of sleeping safe and sound in his father's arms, his mother's voice praising him, Uncle Luke laughing, the view from Chewie's shoulders, the feel of his grandfather's dirty fingers tangled with his in the meadow. He tries to gather these things up and use them to keep him warm and safe in this endless pain and dark and cold, and for a few peaceful, precious moments, it works.

But in the end it's like covering himself with rags and calling it clothing. The cold and the darkness start creeping in again. He's just as broken as he ever was and it's only worse now that he can see and feel the enormity of everything he's done and everything he's lost. His mother is far away and out of reach. Uncle Luke is never going to laugh at him again. His grandfather is only a ghost, just like Obi-Wan, just like ...

_Dad._

Despair hits Kylo Ren hard, battering at him like tidal waves, dragging him upside down, plunging him deeper into freezing darkness. So what, his father still loves him?

He's _dead,_ and he will always be dead, and it will always be his son's fault. There's nothing that he can ever, _ever_ do to make up for what he has already done. The scales will never balance. He is a destroyer, a monster, a killer, and even if he never does another bad thing as long as he lives - and he knows that he will - it won't make a difference. He will never be _good_. He will never be half the man his father was, will never be half the son his mother deserves.

_Mom._

_Call out to her,_ he pleads with himself. _Call out to her and hope that she can hear you. Call for her and let her help you, let her guide you through this. It's your only hope!_

Then there is no hope, because he won't call for her. He can't.

He he will not call for her, even though her name is on his lips and he knows, somehow, somewhere, that she would hear him. That she would answer.

He can't do that to her.   _You ruin everything you touch and destroy everything you want to protect. So if you love your mother at all, if you ever did, then leave her out of this._

 _Do whatever you have to do to protect yourself,_ his father had said, but _why?_ He isn't worth protecting, isn't worth saving. He will cave in on himself if that's what it takes, die if he has to, but he won't let Snoke use him to hurt his family. Not ever again. Not anymore.

As if sensing his defiance, Snoke flings him halfway across the room; he hits the ground hard and rolls, the pain is gone for one astonishing second and then it's back before he can do more than rise to his knees and he's down again, howling, shaking.

He wants his mother so badly in that moment, his lungs physically fill up with air to scream for her. But he doesn't. What would she want with him? How dare he bring her into this? He won't cry out. He won't cry out. He won't cry out. He's not a little boy anymore, no matter if he feels like one. He's a man, a monster, a beast of darkness and light, forever being torn apart. He will _always_ be torn apart. There is no place for him in the world, no path for him to walk. For what he has done, there can be no forgiveness. From where he has gone, there can be no return.

He's swallowed and blanketed in blackness, overwhelmed by it, consumed. He isn't strong enough to fight this. How could he be? He's just one person, just one awful person and he deserves to be alone with his guilt and his pain.

Except he doesn't have to be alone.

Hope drags at him, tearing holes that let the light in, but if Supreme Leader notices, he gives no sign.

Ben Solo can't bring himself to beg his mother's help. But he can ask for help from the one member of his family as broken and ruined as himself.

_Grandfather?_

For long moments, all there is the pain, and his twisting, bucking body, and the cold hard ground beneath him, and he thinks he's been ignored. He would understand if he was being ignored. But then he feels it, recognizes the energy, the power that is Anakin Skywalker. He sees those blue eyes, sees the child, the boy and then the man, fire and passion and determination and desperation and through it all, fierce love.

"Finish what I started, Ben.” The whisper sweeps through his mind like a rush of wind across a desert landscape, stirring up a storm, ripping at him, but this time he _shows_ Ben what he means and it's not fire and it's not blood and it's not even a balance in the Force. It's memories and fantasies and hopes and dreams, past and future, all running together in a stream of sound and color and frustration, tumbling through space and time, somehow familiar and strange: a beautiful woman with warm brown eyes and a smile that could melt glaciers. She holds two babies, one in each arm. One brown-eyed, one blue-eyed, both strong with the Force. Somehow Ben knows that she never really got to hold those babies, but in Anakin Skywalker's dreams, she does. Ben knows those eyes from his mother's face and his own, and he catches a familiar scent: those Naboo flowers, the clean grass of the meadow.

His grandmother vanishes in a swirl of falling flower petals mingled with tears. The babies grow up, strong and brave and fierce and _good_. They have lives and destinies of their own, and eventually, one of them has a family. Ben is born and he realizes his grandfather was _there_ , watching his grandson come into the world, hoping so hard that this boy would be wise enough, strong enough, not to make the same mistakes he made. Ben sees himself there in his father's hands, his mouth open in a squall as Han's Solo's opens in a delighted laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling. His parents exchanging rapturous glances, just for a minute, until they're both looking at him again, holding his tiny flailing form between them like he's the center of the universe. The memory rips and ruptures like a bad holo image, all the colors fading into shades of gray, a flurry of familiar faces in different combinations; they're all together, both the living and the dead, and there's a sense of rightness, of completeness, and finally, of balance.

Is this peace, this family what Anakin Skywalker wanted for Ben Solo?

_If putting our family back together was what you wanted, Grandfather, then it's already too late._

Darkness surges in through the fissure his guilt has opened. Trickles like black ink across his family's smiling faces, drowns out the sound of his grandfather's voice calling his name. It is too late. If making a whole family was what Anakin was after, it is now just another shattered dream without any hope of coming true. Ben himself made sure of that. All of his family is gone now, scattered and distant as stars and it's all his fault.

The lost and the dead. As he is lost and always will be.

There is no home. There is no hope.

And there will never be.

He can't do this. He just can't. It's too much and he's not strong enough, he never has been. No one is coming to save him. He's still screaming on the floor, he's still reaching for the light, but it's getting smaller, and farther away, shrinking to a pinprick, taking the best of him with it until he can no longer feel it at all. _That light is not for you. You will never be worthy. What you want doesn't matter; you can't change what you are. And what are you are, Kylo Ren, is a creature in a mask. A creature of darkness._

He knows it's true. He will never have the strength to drag himself back out of the dark. He will have to die in it instead. He will crumble under the weight of the worst parts of himself; anything good that's left will be held under and drowned. Looking back is worse than useless; shattered, he stares ahead, into the waiting emptiness. He will be haunted for the rest of his life. If he goes, if he stays ... the past will hound him mercilessly no matter what he chooses. He will never be able to go back, and he does not see a way forward. Either way, there will be no peace for him, and he doesn't deserve peace anyway, so perhaps that's best.

 _I'm so sorry,_ Kylo Ren thinks, cries. To everyone, to no one, to the entire damn galaxy, to the silent stars that glare down on him in judgment. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry ..._

 

When the pain finally ends, he finds himself in utter darkness. He can't see anything, can't feel anything, and the only sound is that of a child crying.

“Shut up,” Kylo Ren snarls.

“No,” the child replies, voice thick with tears.

“ _Please_ shut up,” he hisses, “I'm trying to think.”

“Help me,” the boy begs him, whining. “Please.”

“Be quiet, Ben,” Kylo Ren says furiously, “no one's listening to you.”

“ _You_ are.”

“Just. Shut. _Up._ Ben.”

“I'm in here. I'm still in here. You can't get rid of me.” Ben Solo is such a _brat_.

“Just shut your mouth and let me handle this.”

“I don't trust you,” Ben tells him, sniffling.

“Then maybe you're not as stupid as I thought,” says Kylo Ren.

 

He comes back to himself curled in a fetal position on the floor. He can feel the raw ache in his throat from screaming, the light bruising from being dragged and thrown. His nose is sore and his lip is split, trickling blood into his mouth; his face must have hit the floor at some point. The floor is cold beneath him and he braces himself against it, his senses waking back up; he can hear himself panting and gasping for breath that wrenches painfully through his ravaged lungs. He doesn't care about any of that. He doesn't care at all.

Snoke bends low over him, his clammy, slightly sticky fingers reaching out and roughly running through Kylo's tumbled hair, brushing against the salt of tears and streaks of blood on his mouth and chin. Kylo Ren lies still, endures it without so much as a shiver.

"My poor boy," Snoke murmurs, his voice filling the room, a rumble of terrible sympathy. "You thought about calling out to your mother, didn't you? You thought about sending your voice across the Force to her, pleading for her forgiveness, for her help. I felt the longing for her in you. A fault, a deep fault, but one I do understand. She meant the world to you and then she sent you away. But in your heart you know the truth, I sense it. She still doesn't want you near. She loathes everything that you are. All that she cares about is her pathetic Resistance. If she saw you she would shoot you dead and call it justice. And you feel this, and you _still_ want to call out to her. How sad, how dreadfully sad."

“I resisted,” Kylo Ren whispers, his forehead pressed to the hard stone floor, his voice little more than a scratch. Swallowing hurts and tastes like blood. “I was stronger than my pathetic, childish yearnings.”

“You were.” Snoke nods his head and paces a slow circle around Kylo Ren's body. “You were much stronger than I expected you would be. It would appear that I overestimated the influence the Light would have upon you.”

There's a question in there. A test. 

“You did not underestimate it, Supreme Leader,” Kylo struggles to speak, rolls onto his side and tries to stand. “I merely … overcame it.”

“Did I give you permission to rise?” Snoke sounds bored, which is when he is actually at his most dangerous, so Kylo falls limply to the ground again, gritting his teeth against both the impact and the indignity.

“I am sorry … Supreme Leader … please, forgive me.”

A silence as long and frigid as a winter on Hoth passes between them.

“I do, Kylo Ren,” Supreme Leader Snoke says at last, “I do forgive you. And I have a mission for you, a way for you to make this failure up to me. You may rise.”

Kylo does so, pushing aside the pain, straightening his clothes and hanging his head respectfully.

Snoke regards him for a moment from inches away, before turning his back and sweeping to his seat, taking his time getting comfortable before he speaks again. “I have ordered General Hux to ready the _Finalizer._ You will depart tomorrow, and while the _Finalizer_ makes her rounds, you will personally sweep every star system for the scavenger girl."

His heart leaps. “Yes, Supreme Leader.”

“You will find her. You will capture her. You will bring her before me. If you can manage to bring me Luke Skywalker as well, so much the better, but if not, we will get to him later. The girl is your priority. I want her found and under my control before it's too late.”

 _Too late for what?_ But he isn't supposed to wonder things, he is supposed to follow his master's orders. “I will find her, Supreme Leader.”

Snoke smiles his crooked smile, deep and satisfied. He only looks that happy after a good torturing. “I know you will, my eager apprentice. It is inevitable. Something about her calls to you, doesn't it? Tell me … is it the darkness surrounding her that makes you want her near? Or is it her light?”

He doesn't dare lie to his master now. “Both, Supreme Leader.”

“Hmm.” Snoke's smile deepens and stretches, warping his face even further. “Your honesty is refreshing. I am pleased to see that your took your lesson well. I even admire your courage in asking me for it. It is not quite punishment enough, however.”

“I understand, master.”

“Your training is suspended until you have brought the girl to me. When you have done that, I will keep her and do what I can to show her the power of darkness while you complete your training. If she remains obstinate, and you survive your trials, then, and only then, will I give her to you.”

It's a blow, but it's supposed to be a punishment after all, and there's a glimmer of hope.

The girl is very likely to remain obstinate.

“Your judgment is wise and more merciful than I deserve, Supreme Leader,” Kylo Ren says with breathless relief.

Snoke looks down at him with consuming eyes, taking in everything and giving nothing back. “I must caution you, Kylo Ren. While the girl will be a valuable ally if she can be brought under my influence, make no mistake, she is ultimately expendable. Better to have her dead than in the hands of the last Jedi. I would much prefer her brought to me alive and ripe for training, but if you cannot manage that, I want her eliminated. And I will require proof.”

It only makes sense. He was too gentle with the girl the first time, and she escaped. Supreme Leader will want to be certain that he hasn't allowed her to do so again. But there is no doubt in him about one thing: he will find her, and it will be a very different encounter than the first. "I will bring you the girl, Supreme Leader,” he promises softly, fervently, “or I will bring you her corpse."

“Excellent,” Supreme Leader says, and leans forward. “Approach me, Kylo Ren.”

He does so, his feet carrying him forward automatically until he stands directly in front of his master, and Snoke reaches up and takes his face in those pale, sticky hands. Kylo's face is stiff and numb and expressionless, but he knows that his eyes are burning.

“Who are you?” the Supreme Leader asks him.

_I know who I am._

“Kylo Ren.”

“Whom do you serve?”

“You, Supreme Leader.”

“And what do you desire?”

There is no hesitation.

“To serve you in all things, Supreme Leader. To do my duty and prove myself worthy to complete my training.”

“Then we want the same thing, Kylo Ren,” Snoke tells him, smiling wide, and lets him go. He steps backward, stumbling a little, still slightly reeling from the lingering effects of his lesson.

“You have been granted one more chance,” Snoke is saying now. “I still have great faith in you, Kylo Ren. Never have I trained anyone stronger in the Force. Do not forget how far you have come from the frightened boy you once were. Do not lose the power you have gained.” Snoke's voice drops lower and he leans farther forward, throwing more shadows across his apprentice's face. “Do not disappoint me again.

Ignoring the protests he feels out there in the Force, Kylo Ren sinks into a bow. “I will not fail you, master,” he whispers.

He's already out of the audience chamber and halfway to his quarters before he realizes that he's forgotten his mask.

It doesn't matter.

He is done hiding the truth about what he is.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> umm ... happy valentines day?


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I know that it's a lot to ask, but just for now, I need you … to trust me."

Kylo Ren has always been more at ease on the _Finalizer_ than back on base. In the past, he always told himself it was just because of the infinite possibilities of open space, the feeling - one of the few still powerful enough to inspire awe in him after all these jaded years - of sailing through the glittering stars, that made him prefer the Star Destroyer. Now and far too late, he realizes there's more to that truth: any distance that he can put between himself and the Supreme Leader is something that automatically soothes him, makes it easier for him to breathe, to _be._

 

But the distance is only an illusion of freedom, and he has never known that better than now. There is no escape from Supreme Leader Snoke, not ever, not really. Even light years away from Snoke's home base, Kylo Ren still feels caged, trapped, and constantly watched.

 

It's too much to hope that he isn't still under surveillance. When he boarded the _Finalizer_ three days ago, the first thing he did was check his quarters thoroughly for cameras. The search didn't yield anything, but for all he knows, the latest tech is too small to be detected by eyesight. A search through the Force didn't turn up anything unusual either, but he still doesn't trust himself not to have missed something. Everything is upside down; his entire way of looking at the world, of _being,_ has been shattered. He no longer holds any hope of reordering himself. He can only hold the broken pieces together long enough to long enough to make it through this final challenge.

 

He has allowed three days to pass and put more distance between himself and Snoke. Each system they have passed through has been swept perfunctorily for signs of the scavenger girl, but he knows perfectly well they aren't going to find her like this. There's only one way to reach her now, and he wanted to be farther away when he attempted it, but General Hux is breathing down his neck and Supreme Leader has already requested an update on their progress, or lack thereof. Kylo Ren can't stall any longer. He knows what he has to do.

 

So now, alone in his quarters, he collects himself, rakes a hand through his hair, and tries to forget the invisible eyes that may be watching him at this very moment. He sets the cold, bleak room to rights and sits down cross-legged on his bunk, trying to meditate, to get himself in tune enough to reach out with the Force, listening, feeling for the signs that will lead him to the one he's searching for.

 

Instead he hears his father's voice, muffled, but insistent.

 

His first reaction is panic, which quickly thickens into a sense of shame, a lump in his throat. This is the first time he's felt anything from the ghosts since his “lesson” with Snoke three days prior. He's been blocking them with all his strength, not daring to let them anywhere near him for fear that Snoke would know and punish him again. His body still sings with imagined agony, the reminder of what awaits him if he fails, and his mind is still taunting him with the truth of his nature, the fact that he will never be good again. That perhaps he never was.

 

But his strength is waning now, his resolve flickering because he has grown too accustomed to hearing his father's voice, and he wants so badly for somebody to love him and to lie to him and tell him that everything is going to be okay.

 

But it would be only another lie, another weakening blow to his will.

 

 _Go away,_ he thinks sharply. _You can't be here_ _right now._

 

 _Why not?_ His father's voice is only getting louder, clearer and stronger. Stronger by far, in his own way, than his son is. _Snoke's far away, Ben. He can't hurt you here._

 

That may or may not be true. Unfortunately, and entirely by design, no doubt, Supreme Leader has never revealed the full extent of his powers to his apprentice. It would seem that he has to be at least in the same star system to influence someone, but for all Kylo Ren knows, Snoke could reach out and crush him from across the galaxy, controlling him with the ease of a skilled puppet-master. It's not a chance he's willing to take. Besides, everything is too uncertain now, balancing on the thinnest of lines. He has been manipulated, controlled, pulled apart for all of his life; he has exactly one chance, one choice left, and it is his and his alone. He's not going to allow Han Solo to influence this, to change his course in any way.

 

 _You don't know how powerful he is,_ he tells his father, wearily. The argument is pointless; everything is pointless now, but he can't resist it. Arguing with his father makes him feel something like a real person.

 

 _I don't give a damn how powerful Snoke is; I am_ _ **not**_ _leaving you like this._ There's a hard edge to his father's presence in his head, but then it gentles, tries to soothe him. _Please, Ben. Don't push me away._

 

Kylo's body slumps, and he rests his head in his hands, sulky. He doesn't have the energy to push his father out; he needs it for other things. And the illusion of shelter that Han Solo's presence provides is more than he can bear to give up, childish and small as that is of him. _Okay. Fine. You can stay for now, but we have to talk like this. No apparitions._

 

 _Fair enough._ His dad pauses. _You know, you had me worried there, kid. I thought maybe … that I'd lost you after all._

 

A slight shudder passes through him. _I thought so too._ It had been a very near thing. Lying there on the freezing floor of Snoke's audience chamber, with blood streaming from his mouth and nose, his body and mind screaming out their hatred, it would have been so easy to simply surrender. To give in and let the darkness rush over and swallow him completely. He has ignored the light for so long; he thinks he could have kept ignoring it, could have lived with the agony of being ripped in half for at least as long as it took to carry out his master's will. But he didn't fold, not completely. Some part of him, the part that used to be Ben, that still _is_ Ben, was shouting loud enough to keep the rest of him awake. In the war against himself, it was a quiet, private victory.

 

But still, an incomplete one. Too much of him has been lost to ever be recovered. Snoke's little lesson taught him that much, at least. It helped him see clearly the broken path that lays ahead of him, and promise of peace that waits at the end.

 

 _I knew you could do it._ Han Solo's voice is warm. _I'm proud of you, kid._

 

Jabbed by his father's approval, Kylo sighs deeply, his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees. He scrunches in on himself, trying to ground himself in the space of his narrow bed. He's trying to make something feel solid, make something feel secure. But nothing is secure, even this silent conversation, this insubstantial companionship. It reminds him too much of Snoke, of the long dark nights spent having a constant stream of whispers poured into his ears, the whispers that he now understands were poison, were lies. The whispers that led to this heartbreak, this horror, this haunting. That led to his strong, laughing, once-beloved father being reduced to nothing more than another voice inside his head, another ghost in the never-ending Force. He shivers and curls in on himself tighter, his hands tightening on his face, his fingertips digging in before relaxing and beginning to restlessly trace the rough line of his scar. Strange that that should be what finally calms him.

 

 _Ben,_ his father speaks up once more. _I know that you're scared ..._

 

 _I'm not scared._ It started out as a lie, but somehow thinking it makes it true. Right now, in this moment, he's not scared, he's not angry, he's just numb. He knows what he has to do, he's known all along, decided it back in that audience chamber with his face on the floor and his blood in his mouth. He just has to find a way to do it without messing it up.

 

_Messing what up, Ben?_

 

He grits his teeth. _You weren't supposed to hear that._

 

_Sorry, kid. I'm new to this whole mental-communication thing. Guess I'll get the hang of it eventually._

 

Wait. There's something missing here: the stolid presence that he's come to expect alongside his father's. There should be someone here with Han Solo, but it's just the two of them now, father and son.

 

_Where's Obi-Wan?_

 

A snort from his father. _Damned if I know._

 

_But I thought ... how can you be here, if ..._

 

_It's not the old man who's been keeping me here, Ben. Not for a while. It's been you, for a long time now._

 

Kylo Ren closes his eyes, releases a long, harsh breath. _Of course._ It hurts him right down to his bones, which is how he knows it's true. Somehow, a dead man has become his lifeline.

 

There's silence for a long while, but it's not a heavy thing. This quiet is almost peaceful and it rests lightly on Kylo Ren, in him, all around him and through him. He may not be able to see his father's face, but he can feel his presence as clearly as if he were standing there, as real and true as if he were alive. There's a split second where he pretends this is the case, that if he opens his eyes Han Solo will be solid and warm and waiting to take him home like nothing ever happened. It's a second of peace that immediately splinters into fragments, which lodge sharp and painful in his heart. He has no _right_ , and he can't let broken dreams distract him. Not now, when he's so close to the end. The pain dims and dulls, but still throbs inside of him like a bruise. He's used to this kind of aching, and ignores it. He shakes his head and sits upright, preparing himself to try again.

 

_What are you up to, kid?_

 

He fidgets, uncomfortable with the question. _If I told you, you wouldn't like it._

 

_Well, I don't like not knowing either._

 

He shakes his head slightly. _Not now._

 

_When?_

 

_You'll see._

 

His father sighs, his impatience a brittle thing in his son's mind. _Before or after you get yourself into real trouble, Ben?_

 

Kylo almost snorts aloud. _I'm already in real trouble, in case it escaped your notice. I'm trying to fix things, so would you just give me a break?_

 

 _Do you want me to leave?_ He feels his father's care, his hesitation. It's almost reassuring that in this moment, his father doesn't really know what the right thing is to do either. But one thing is certain.

 

_No. No, I don't want you to leave._

 

Han Solo's relief is intense, and Kylo Ren tries not to let it affect him. Predictably, he fails. Before he can resume his attempts to meditate, his dad is talking again.

 

_What happened to calling your mom, kid?_

 

A fresh surge of panic ripples through him, ripping at the edges of the numbness, threatening to set off a chain reaction, another breakdown. _I never agreed to that._ His thought has a jagged, raw edge. _I never promised I would go to her._

 

 _Why the hell not?_ Han Solo might be a disembodied voice at the moment, but he's as belligerent as ever, and Kylo can picture the exact look that would be on his father's face right now. _You know that she could help you …_

 

_Bad things happen to people who try to help me. **You** know that. _

 

There's a brief, pained pause, a stutter in the Force. Kylo knows that his cryptic words and erratic behavior have his father worried again. But soon enough it won't matter. Soon enough, he will be a source of worry to no one at all.

 

 _You're going to have to face her sooner or later, you know._ Han Solo sounds grim and gentle at the same time.

 

Kylo chews his lower lip. _Later, then._

 

_Well, hell, Ben, how much later? What kinda time do you think you have? Are you going to wait until the ship gets closer to the Ileenium system and then escape, is that it?_

 

He can hardly stand how hopeful his father sounds as he tries to fathom his son's mind. _Don't be ridiculous. I have a mission to complete._

 

 _Your_ _ **mission**_ _?_ Now the ghost is simply incredulous. _You mean the one where you're supposed to fight and kidnap an innocent girl who's had maybe a month of Jedi training and drop her off with Snoke to be brainwashed and tortured? And failing that, to kill her?_

 

He could choose this moment to point out that Han Solo just revealed to him that the girl has indeed found Luke Skywalker and begun her training, which had only been suspected at that point, but that would be like rubbing salt in the wound. _That's the one_.

 

He can feel the ghost's astonishment, his horror, his total blindsided confusion. _I don't … you're … this … you're not making any damn sense, Ben! I know you know that this is wrong …_

 

_**Everything** is wrong. There is no right answer. I'll do what I have to do, no matter what. _

 

 _You won't hurt that girl._ Han Solo is adamant, commanding.

 

His son can't help but smile. _You're making performative utterances now?_

 

_No. But I know that you won't do this. You won't hurt Rey._

 

_I never said I was going to hurt her._

 

_But you're going to hunt her down?_

 

He tightens his hands into fists and then he loosens them, releasing his breath in a slow hiss between his teeth. _I don't really have a choice._

 

His father is furious now, and his son lets the wave of anger break over him, absorbing the impact of it without flinching. _You_ _ **do**_ _have a choice, Ben. You know_ _ **damn**_ _well you have a choice._

 

He does know it, and his choice has already been made. He can't share it with his father because he knows that he'd try to talk him out of it, would try to sway him into doing something else, something foolish and heroic and impossible, and because he's Han Solo, he just might manage it. Ben can't afford to let himself be swayed.

 

 _ **Dad,**_ he thinks with great strain, _listen to me. This isn't what it looks like. I know that it's a lot to ask,_ _but just for now, I need you … to trust me._

 

A silence the length of a lifetime hangs between them. It's possible that Han is trying to remember the last time he was called _Dad_. Ben, his heart thudding painfully, is trying to remember it too. But he can't.

 

 _Okay,_ his father thinks finally, with a shiny, grudging hope. He's willing to give his son a chance. Even now, with so much proof to the contrary, he's still willing to believe the best of Ben.

 

_And let me concentrate._

 

_Whatever you need, kid._

 

Han Solo retreats slightly, growing quiet and still. He's watching, he's waiting, but he won't interfere.

 

Kylo breathes deeply, steadies himself. What he's about to attempt will set him on a collision course with destiny. Assuming he can manage it.

 

 _Shut up and breathe and get this over with,_ he snaps at himself. The sooner he does, the sooner it will all be over. He has to believe that he can do this. He knows that he can.

 

Meditation is the one thing he learned from his uncle that has actually been helpful to him. It's odd, considering how little patience he has in every other respect, but Ben Solo long ago learned how to sit and think successfully about nothing for hours at a time. Feeling nothing but the Force around him, in him, in everything: it a part of him and he a part of it, inseparable. Uncle Luke always used to say that he was envious of Ben's ability to meditate so deeply, and Ben just blushed and scoffed and never told his uncle why he worked so hard at meditation, why he sought it out so often.

 

It was because sometimes, every now and then, he could manage to become so still, so quiet that he felt like he was disappearing into the Force, becoming untouched and untouchable. Even the voice that was Snoke couldn't reach him there. He was ... at peace. It felt like what he imagined wholeness, completeness, security felt like, and he strove for it whenever he could.

 

It wasn't often attainable. But when he did manage to attain it, it made all the long hours of disappointment worth it. For a few more desperate days, it made his life liveable.

 

He hasn't been able to attain that level of peace and tranquility in quite a long time. But that isn't exactly what he's trying to do right now. Right now, he's not trying to use the Force to isolate himself. He's trying to use it to reach out and find someone else.

 

Someone who, if she has any sense at all, will be blocking him at every turn, and will have no desire to speak to him.

 

Everything depends on being able to make this connection, have this conversation ... he knows that. The fact that he knows it is tying him in knots, making him far too aware of the tension in his body, his exhaustion and his strain, his old and new scars. He feels like an utter mess of a human being, like he's just barely holding himself together, which is in fact the case, but he doesn't need to be reminded of it, especially not right now.

 

 _You can do this,_ he tells himself. _You_ _ **have**_ _to do this._

 

In the back of his mind, he can feel his father encouraging him, even though he doesn't know what his son is planning. It's making it more difficult to fade into the Force, but that doesn't mean he's going to send his father away. Maybe that's a weakness, but it's _his_ weakness; his attachment to his father is part of him and he is keeping it. He's just going to have to work harder.

 

For a moment, his eyes flicker open and he catches sight of his grandfather's mask in the corner. He frowns, uncomfortable with the sight of it even more than he has ever been before. He brought it on board with him out of habit, but now he wishes he had left it behind, abandoned it just like he abandoned his own. Looking at that lump of melted metal makes him feel small and stupid, reminding him of all the ways in which he has failed, making him believe that he will keep on failing.

 

But if he pulls this off, Ben Solo's days of disappointing his family members will be at an end.

 

Kylo closes his eyes once again, shutting out the sight of the mask, of his sparse and barren quarters, of whatever hidden cameras might happen to be trained on him. Once more, he pensively runs his fingertips down the length of the scar that shatters his face, before settling his hands, palms up, on his knees.

 

He relaxes his body one piece at a time. Takes a deep breath. Another, deeper, filling and emptying his lungs completely. Another. Another. Another. He just focuses on breathing until he loses count of the breaths, until he no longer has to think about it, until he no longer has to think at all. Until he can't feel his body anymore, can't feel the mattress beneath him, doesn't know how long he's been at this, has no concept of time, or of place. He isn't anywhere, isn't anyone, he's just another thread in the fabric of the living Force and it's like a broken bone has mended in the time it takes a heart to beat, for a pair of lips to part and gasp. It's like swimming except he never needs to worry about drowning. It's like sleeping except he never has to fear nightmares.

 

He has nothing to fear here. He doesn't even fear failure. There is no such thing as failure. She is out there, as much a part of this energy as he is, and being bound by neither time nor space, it is inevitable that he will reach her. It also seems inevitable that she will reach back.

 

There isn't any true sight here, isn't any real sound, but there are vivid impressions. With everything else quieted, with the noise of his own mind and heart turned down as low as they will go, he can focus entirely on other sensations: the calling of birds, the brush of wind through trees, the white howl of a raging snowstorm, the glare of sun on a rippling sea of sand ... he sorts through them all with thoroughness and patience, until he finds what he's been searching for: the rhythmic crashing of waves on rocks, the hot damp scent of green seaweed, the stinging kiss of salt.

 

This is not just any island. There's a familiarity to it, a feeling of rightness, of sanctuary … this is the place. He recognizes it from the mind of another, and his spirit lifts to see it, just as hers always did in her dreams. There's something chaotic and turbulent about the sea here, something sharp and toothy about the rocks, something challenging in the very landscape. This island is a fortress for those who do not wish to be found, and he about to breach it. He could almost feel bad about that. Almost.

 

Slowly and carefully he seeks and sifts among the impressions of the island, small creatures and hardy plants; he doesn't need those. Higher, deeper, he ventures. He feels like he's climbing stones slippery with brine, grappling with rocky outcroppings, like the island itself is fighting him. The air is redolent with salt and rain. Everything feels damp and thick with every imaginable shade of green.

 

 _She must love it here,_ he thinks vaguely, and nearly loses it, nearly falls back into himself at that moment, his foolish heart twisting with the strange sympathy he feels for the desert dweller who had been so afraid to leave her wasteland of a home. It was hard enough just to get here; he cannot stay for long. He hasn't come this far just to let compassion undo him now.

 

He feels something then, the threads of the Force humming, everything in him becoming aware and alert as he's in the presence of another being, a fellow human, a Force user. He feels it strongly: the blistering heat of twin suns, the adamance of raw diamond, the gentle yet insistent whisper of warm wind. This Force signature is not the one he came here for, but he recognizes it at once and pulls back, nearly ruining everything yet again with his visceral reaction, the impulse to hide from his uncle.

 

Luke Skywalker must surely have felt him there, must know what his nephew is up to. Even he can't be that oblivious. But he gives no reaction, makes no response. The last Jedi might as well be a part of the island itself: immutable, immovable, unfazed. He is not going to interfere. So the seeker drags himself away, ignores his uncle. He moves on and before he's ready for it, he's practically stumbled over the girl.

 

Her reaction is immediate and defensive, but either she's not practiced enough to shove him away or she has a reason for not doing so, because a moment later everything loosens and relaxes, the Force between their consciousness going steady instead of taut. The impressions he gets from her are still of strong things, rough things, unbreakable things. Sharp-edged scrap metal and streaks of dirt that don't wash out and hulking wrecks of hollowed-out starships. The light shining through in the empty spaces is blinding. And so are the shadows, laying long and deep between the rays of brightness. The final image in the series that he gleans from her is a set of calloused hands, tenderly, protectively cupping some fragile red and blue flowers.

 

He gets to feel her impressions of him, too. A red wall of fire, crackling and leaping and consuming. The tragic coldness of starlight observed from far away, flecks of ice in a pure black sky: light, but untouchable and dead. But then a flash of softness, of warmth, of blue. For a moment it resembles the sky, but it has a texture, a comforting softness, a familiar scent. It's the blanket that he slept under as a little boy. And when the girl traces the fabric in her mind, she stops seeing him as a monster, just for a moment, and then when she breaks away from the impressions, she's angrier than before.

 

The memory of their last encounter burns between them, red and raw and ugly as a fresh wound, and every bit as painful. That day on Starkiller has scarred her too. She, in her own way, is just as haunted as he is.

 

_They told me that you'd come looking for me._

 

It takes him a moment to gather himself enough to respond. _They?_

 

 _Master Luke. And Master Obi-Wan._ An edge of defensiveness, protectiveness, curls around her thoughts of them. She's fond of the old ghost, and she'd kill to protect Luke Skywalker. Just as she would have killed to protect her friend, the traitor. Through the girl, he can sense that FN-2187 still lives. He doesn't know how to feel about that. Perhaps the fact that his first reaction is not fury is answer enough.

 

She would have killed for his father too. He can feel that part of her still wants to.

 

Good. It's not too late.

 

_So. Obi-Wan talks to you about me?_

 

 _Sometimes._ Her reply is careful, guarded. Part of her fears he will take advantage of the connection between them, invade her thoughts again, but he won't. He will only know what she chooses to show him, or what she cannot hide.

 

 _Unfair,_ he thinks, keeping the tone of his thoughts light. His casual demeanor is throwing her off, he can tell. She didn't expect this from him. She has never known what to expect from him. _He's told me next to nothing about your progress._

 

 _Maybe he likes me more than you._ The retort should be funny, but there's a snarl in it, like she's throwing it in his face.

 

_Almost certainly. What did the old man tell you?_

 

There's a pause, a hitch in the connection between them. _He says that you're unfinished,_ she thinks finally. _That you're incomplete. And that makes you dangerous._

 

Well, he has always been dangerous. As long as he's alive, he always will be. That's why he's here.

 

 _He also says you think … you think that I'm like_ _ **you**_ _._ _That I'm vulnerable to … to the darkness._ He can feel her loathing of the idea of a similarity between them, but all that does is reinforce the truth of it.

 

_You sound as if you don't believe it._

 

 _I_ _ **don't**_ _!_ The strength of her denial rings through him, and it smacks of desperation. Something he is all too familiar with.

 

 _Well, now you're just lying,_ he thinks at her, with a tinge of smugness. _I felt it in the interrogation room. I felt it when we fought._ _The darkness does call to you, and sometimes, you answer._

 

_You're wrong._

 

_Am I? You've repeatedly tried to kill me. I have repeatedly spared your life. Do you think it was the power of the Dark Side that made me want to spare you? Do you think it was the power of the Light that made you want me dead?_

 

_You **should** be dead. You **deserve** to be dead. _

 

On that, at least, they agree. But still, he keeps pushing at her, enjoying himself a little too much. He may have lost sight of why he's here, but he's almost having fun, and he can't bear to cut it short. Besides, the angrier she gets, the more she resents him, the easier their next encounter will be.

 

 _I've seen your mind, remember?_ He needles her, though it feels a lot like needling himself. _I've felt what you feel. Your anger at being abandoned. Your fear that you would always be alone. The emptiness, the loneliness, the aching in your heart while you waited and waited and waited for someone to come for you …_

 

 _And what about_ _ **you**_ _?_ Her push-back is immediate and ferocious. _I've seen your mind too, don't forget. You're so_ _ **frightened**_ _, every day, every minute. You want everyone to be afraid of you because you're afraid of everything. But you're not scary, not anymore, not to me. You're just sad, and pathetic, and I feel_ _ **sorry**_ _for you._

 

He's struck to the core by this strange contradiction, that the girl would use her – very genuine - sympathy as a weapon. And he's even more struck by how well it works; that it pierces him, shames him, that it makes him want to retreat and curl into himself and call this whole thing off. But he can't. He won't. He's come too far to turn back now. In the end, this will be for her good as much as his.

 

 _We're a lot more alike than you think,_ he tells her, grimly. _And do you know what?_ _I'm sorry for you, too. Stuck on this island with a failed Jedi. He'll never be able to show you the true power of the Force. I would know. He was no help to me._

 

 _Save it,_ she thinks furiously. _Master Luke told me all about you. He tried to help you, but you wouldn't let him. He loved you and you betrayed him. That's what you_ _ **do**_ _. People love you and you break them. People try to help you, and you destroy them._ The Force shakes, quivering with her fury at him.

 

But she can never hate him as much as he hates himself.

 

_You're right._

 

She didn't expect him to concede that. She didn't expect him to concede anything. For a short time, she's silent, and the threads of the Force binding their consciousness together ripple with tension, with waiting.

 

 _What did you come here for?_ There's an empty space, a hesitation where his name would be, if they were using names. She leaves it empty because she doesn't know which one to use.

 

Which is fair enough, because right now, neither does he.

 

_I came here to ask you to meet me._

 

_Why should I? Because I'm oh-so-fond of our creepy little chats?_

 

_Don't be coy. You said it yourself; you knew I'd come for you. You've talked this over with your master, obviously. Don't pretend you haven't been preparing for this._

 

She pauses, weighing his words. _What happens if I say no?_

 

He has to be cruel now. It's the only thing that will ensure her cooperation. _I know how to find you now._ _Either you can meet me in a neutral location or I can descend on Skywalker's island with a Star Destroyer and a full complement of stormtroopers. The choice is in your hands. I'll even let you pick the place, if that gives you any ease._

 

 _Pick the battleground, you mean._ She hates him for threatening her master, for finding their location and having the power to expose it. Good.

 

 _What's the matter?_ he taunts her. _I thought you weren't afraid of me._

 

 _Now who's being coy?_ she shoots back. _I said I wasn't afraid of you; I didn't say I wasn't afraid of_ _ **fighting**_ _you._ It's a strange breath of honesty. He would tell her that she has nothing to fear from him, but then, the game would be up. And besides, he's really not sure if it's true.

 

 _You don't have to fight me, you know,_ he points out, just to test her reaction. _You could just come with me willingly. It would save you a lot of time and injuries._

 

_No, thanks._

 

_I'm offended. I could have just attacked you and Skywalker without any warning at all, but here I am, in peace. After the generous offer I made you, don't you trust me at all?_

 

Her response this time is not automatic, but it is sharp, insightful. _How can I trust someone who doesn't even trust himself?_

 

That stings, and he feels compelled, perhaps by the Force itself, to give her something, some proof of his intentions, even if it's unwise to do so. He's never been accused of being wise. _Then don't trust me. Trust yourself, search your feelings. You know …. you know that I'm not going to kill you._

 

She seems to chew that over for a minute before replying _. There are worse things than dying,_ she thinks grimly. _You're living proof of that._

 

He doesn't know how she manages to do that; cut straight to the most vulnerable parts of him. Glimpsing the inside of his mind might have helped, or maybe he's just that transparent. One thing's certain: she's perfectly set up to destroy him.

 

_Name the time and place, scavenger. I'm getting impatient._

 

She doesn't take long, spurred on by the implicit threat against Skywalker and his hiding place. She's wound tight as steel wire, taut and determined and gleaming. _The Dagobah system._ _Three days. Come down to the planet_ _ **alone**_ _._

 

He's so thrilled at her agreement that he doesn't even bother to consider if this will be allowed. Somehow, he'll make them see the necessity of it; no one else will get near her. _I will if you will. I promise. See you in three days … Rey._

 

He severs the connection before she can reply, falling back into himself to find his arms and legs have fallen asleep. He opens his eyes, standing and stretching his protesting limbs. There's a slight smile on his face that won't go away. He doesn't feel happy, exactly … he's not sure he would know how to recognize happiness or if it's something he's even capable of feeling anymore. Maybe happiness, like innocence, is something that once lost, can never really be reclaimed. But he's deeply satisfied with the results of his search.

 

He's done it now. With Rey's help, he has set destiny in motion. Now, things can begin to unfold as they should have the first time around.

 

_Ben?_

 

His father's voice is back; he knew Han Solo wouldn't be capable of restraining himself for long. But rather than sounding confrontational or angry, his father almost sounds frightened, and this is much worse. _Ben, what the hell was that?_

 

_Don't worry about it._

 

_Too late. I'm worried. I thought maybe I knew what you were up to, but now I don't know what to think._

 

He sighs. _What are you so afraid of?_

 

_I'm afraid for **you** , kid. _

 

Kylo Ren closes his eyes, fighting back the telltale stinging in them before it can form into real tears. _Don't be. Everything's going to work out just as it should, Dad. I … I promise. I'm going to make things right. There's more work for me to do here, so I'll talk to you later … okay?_

 

_Okay, Ben. Okay. I just hope you know what you're doing._

 

 _Me too,_ he thinks as his father's voice fades away once again. But his path has never been more clear, and now he knows for sure where it will end.

 

The Dagobah system. Three days.

 

Kylo Ren begins to get dressed, sheathing his skin in the familiar comfort of dark cloth. He told his dad that he was going to make things right, and he meant it. But he's not sure that Han Solo would see it that way, so he keeps it to himself and hopes that faith in him, the faith he so little deserves, will be enough to blind his father to his true plan.

 

All his life, Ben Solo has hurt people and ruined things. He doesn't know how to do anything else, and he never will. He's too weak and vulnerable to overthrow Supreme Leader Snoke. He's too proud and too ashamed to face his mother. He has too much darkness in him to be a Jedi and too much light in him to stay on the Dark Side. He's too broken, too twisted and wrong, to ever hope to make amends by living. But there is one more person he can destroy, and he has no qualms about doing so. His greatest enemy has always been himself.  

 

He is going to make things right by dying.

 

It's all too perfect. The idea fell into his head while he lay bleeding and self-loathing on the floor of Snoke's audience chamber, all the pieces falling into place like a gift. The first time in his life he can ever recall forming such a perfect plan, which makes him think the Force must be at least partly responsible for it. Mere suicide won't do, it would be too quick, too easy; it wouldn't even close to compensating for all the wrongs he's done. And besides, his pride would not allow it. He will die fighting, lightsaber in hand.

 

He will die as he should have died on Starkiller Base: struck down by his grandfather's lightsaber, the family legacy he mangled and misunderstood, wielded by a girl as light and dark as he is; by Luke Skywalker's apprentice. In vengeance for the students he killed so long ago. In vengeance for the stormtrooper he savagely mauled just because he had managed to do the one thing Kylo Ren never could: get free.

 

In vengeance, most of all, for his father.

 

Kylo Ren's sudden death will foil three decades of Snoke's hard work, and will deprive him of Rey, as well. Uncle Luke will find new purpose and come back to help everybody. Without Ben around to ruin things, eventually some kind of peace must be restored to the galaxy. His death is the only way that he can help now.

 

It will never be enough to make up for all the rest of it: the years of tortures and slaughters, the conquering, the countless battles, and breaking his mother's heart. But he can only die once.

 

And once he's dead, neither Kylo Ren nor Ben Solo will ever be able to hurt anyone again. Or be hurt.  

 

Dressed, and with his hair brushed and his face washed, he's finally ready. Or as close to ready as he will ever be. Sighing with disdain for what he's about to do, he hits one of the comm buttons on the wall. It beeps for several long moments before anyone answers. Finally, the voice of one his least favorite people in the galaxy comes out of the speaker, tinny and unpleasant.

 

“Blast it, Ren, do you have any idea what time it is?” General Hux snaps. Kylo can't help smirking, pleased to have disturbed Hux's sleep. “This had better be important.”

 

“It is,” Kylo Ren says flatly. “Get up and come to Meeting Room C, General. We have to contact the Supreme Leader. To tell him that I've found the girl.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone! i come bearing angst. sorry that this chapter took so long ... it's been a really rough couple of weeks IRL and also this chapter just did. not. want. to. exist. thankfully, this was originally half of a much longer (rough draft of a) chapter, so the next update shouldn't take nearly as long. as always, each one of your feedback/comments are so deeply appreciated and honestly mean the world to me. <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben Solo is going to die. That is decided. But once upon a time, he did live. And sometimes, he was happy.

When Kylo Ren enters the meeting room a few minutes later, Hux is already there. Pettily, Kylo had hoped that Hux would show up out of breath, bleary-eyed and disheveled, possibly in his pajamas. Unfortunately, the general is as severely appropriate as ever, ginger hair slicked back without a strand out of place, his back ramrod straight, his black uniform crisp. His eyes, cold and sharp as icicles, pierce Kylo with a glare as he enters.

 

“General,” Kylo says, his tone more condescending than respectful. Merely being in the other man's presence sets his teeth on edge.

 

Hux's lower lip curls. “Ren. I have just patched a message through to the base.” The general's tone is as cold and curt as always.

 

“Fine.” Now all that they can do is wait for a response. Which means that he's now stuck in this room with Hux for however long that takes … not a pleasant prospect. The high from his successful talk with Rey is starting to wear off as he's confronted with the reality of the situation. He may have convinced her to meet with him, but now he has to convince Snoke, who has never trusted him less. And even if he manages to get his way on this, what about the rest? What about the actual logistics of reaching the planet's surface? _Alone,_ he said, which means that he'll have to …

 

No, he can't think about that right now. Whatever happens later, can be dealt with later. He just has to get through this part and then he can …

  
“ _Excuse_ me,” General Hux says irritably. The emphasis he's placing on the words suggests it's not the first time he's said them. “I do _so_ hate to interrupt your daydream, Ren, but I am curious to know how _you_ were able to locate the scavenger girl without so much as leaving your quarters, when my best scouts ...”

 

“Your best scouts are nothing compared to the power of the Force,” Kylo cuts in, turning to sneer at Hux. The general's face goes pink with annoyance, his mouth still hanging open slightly in his unfinished sentence. “As for an explanation, you'll receive one when the Supreme Leader does. I don't enjoy repeating myself.” Taking just a moment to savor the pissed-off expression on Hux's pinched face, Kylo turns his own face pointedly away.

 

It's as much a defensive gesture as it is offensive. He misses his mask painfully badly whenever he's around Hux; he's always been uncomfortable with the general seeing his face, and that discomfort has never been stronger than it is right now. Perhaps it's simple paranoia, but it seems to Kylo Ren that there's been a nasty, knowing gleam in Hux's eyes lately. It makes him suspect that the general was responsible for installing the cams in his quarters, that he has seen the holo footage that betrayed Kylo's weakness to Snoke. As if he wasn't detestable enough already. Even after being Force-choked, Hux _still_ isn't afraid of Kylo Ren. If he'd seen him crying his eyes out and talking to thin air, that would make sense …

 

 _That doesn't matter anymore,_ he remembers, his gloved hands curling in and out of fists as he struggles to maintain composure. _All that matters is keeping your promise. All that matters is making things right._

 

After what feels like an eternity of frigid silence, the holo projector on the table finally flickers to life, casting Snoke's shadowy figure high into the air. Hux snaps to attention and Kylo Ren bows his head automatically, hoping to hide any stray flickers of fear that might flash across his traitorous face. He keeps his father's words in mind: _Snoke's far away. He can't hurt you here._

 

“Report to me, Kylo Ren,” Snoke says at once, a trace of static in his voice. “Tell me all that you know.”

 

“Supreme Leader.” Kylo looks up, locking eyes with Snoke's hologram. Fear traces a cold finger down his spine, but he ignores it. He must play this perfectly, or his plan will go straight from spark to ashes. “I was able to make contact with the girl through the Force, and she has agreed to a meeting.” As briefly and vaguely as possible, he sketches out his conversation with Rey. He has no intention of revealing the location of the island, so he acts as though he found Rey by searching for her directly, without the aid of a location, and he doesn't mention Luke Skywalker at all. If Snoke notices holes in his story, he doesn't point them out yet. The Supreme Leader merely nods as he listens, his warped face expressionless except for the occasional twitch of his mouth or eyes.

 

“Once we reach the Dagobah system, it's only a matter of time before I can deliver the girl,” Kylo concludes, allowing some of his satisfaction to show on his face. It would be suspicious if he didn't seem eager.

 

"Why the Dagobah system, of all places?" Hux asks, wrinkling his nose. "It's nothing but a swamp in the sky."

 

"A swamp it may be, General, but it is a swamp with strong ties to the Force," Snoke says thoughtfully, a spidery hand resting on his chin. "A fitting place for such a meeting."

 

Kylo thinks it's best if he doesn't mention that he let Rey choose it. He's on thin ice as it is, especially considering ... “There is one more thing, Supreme Leader.”

 

Snoke's eyes widen ever-so-slightly before he resumes his usual hungry expression. “Tell me.”

 

Kylo takes a quick breath and launches into his sentence so fast he nearly stumbles over the words. “The deal that I struck with the girl requires that I come to the planet's surface alone.”

 

There's a brief pause. Snoke doesn't look particularly surprised. Hux makes a barely audible noise of derision. And Kylo Ren just waits, minding the look on his face, taking great care to look sincere but not too eager.

 

“I see,” Snoke murmurs at last. Something stirs in the depths of his black eyes, the skewed corners of his mouth twisting into a smile. “The two of you would like your privacy?”

 

Kylo blinks, surprised and confused. For a moment, he genuinely thinks that he's been caught out; Snoke's innuendo doesn't hit him for several moments, and when it does, he feels his entire body start to turn red, the tips of his ears burning. _He thinks that I … that we … as if she would_ _ever_ _… ._

 

He opens his mouth intending to hotly deny the insinuation, but something stops him. To hell with it. Let Snoke and Hux both think that, if they want. Any suspicions at his insistence on going alone will be laid to rest if they think he's after the girl for ... that. His very real embarrassment helps to sell the story.

 

“Suffice it say that I'll use whatever methods necessary to secure the desired results. With your permission, of course, Supreme Leader.”

 

To his left, Hux is the closest to laughing he's ever seen him. But Supreme Leader is still smiling faintly, wearing the look that on him passes for benevolence. He doesn't speak, though, and a lump of dread starts to form in the pit of Kylo's stomach. _He's not going for it …_

 

“Supreme Leader, if I may,” Hux pipes up, having reigned in his own amusement for the time being. For the first time in living memory, Kylo is grateful for Hux's interruption, because it kills the silence.

 

“I welcome your opinion, General,” Supreme Leader says indulgently.

 

Hux clears his throat and stands up straighter, tilting his chin. “It would seem unwise to send Ren alone to meet with someone who nearly killed him the last time they fought,” Hux says with far too much satisfaction at the memory. “I would strongly recommend sending at least one squad of stormtroopers down with him as backup. Possibly two. If it's privacy Ren is concerned with, well then … they don't have to _watch_.”

 

"If you send any troops down to that planet,” Kylo snaps, his face and ears still burning as he rounds on the general, “the girl will know immediately, and any attempt at negotiation will become a fight, which she may not survive. Supreme Leader wants her alive, if possible. I have her trust, for the moment, but I have no hope of keeping that trust if I break my word so soon after giving it."

 

“You never should have given her word in the first place; it was presumptuous of you,” Hux says, not incorrectly. “Your lack of forethought is not my problem, Ren.”

 

It wouldn't help his case with Snoke if he killed Hux right now. He has to remind himself of that. “I beg to differ, General. My plans are delicate, and if your meddling upsets them, it will be very much your problem. Because I will make you suffer for it.”

 

If the other man is at all concerned, he certainly doesn't show it. "Do you really think that she will honor _her_ word to come alone?" Hux points out coldly. It's at that moment that Kylo realizes, sickeningly, that he didn't actually think to secure such a promise from Rey. He'd promised _her_ , and then immediately retreated, like an idiot. But Hux and Snoke don't need to know that.

 

Kylo fixes Hux with a glare that he allows to twist into a smirk. "She's young. She's naïve. She fancies herself a Jedi. Her absurd sense of honor will give her no choice but to keep her word."

 

"I believe you are correct in that assessment, Kylo Ren," Supreme Leader interjects, the deep, chilly sound of his voice making both Kylo and Hux stand up straighter, fixing their attention once again on the looming hologram. "Very well. I will give my consent for you to meet with the girl alone, but there are conditions. You understand."

 

He's almost euphoric with relief. "Yes, Supreme Leader. Of course."

 

"You will have ... one standard day, from the moment you land on the planet, to either sway the girl, capture her, or destroy her.” The Supreme Leader's face clouds and his voice darkens. “I think that is more than generous of me. Should you fail to accomplish any of these things within the allotted time, troops will at once be sent to the planet's surface to complete the task for you."

 

 _Oh, no they won't._ "That won't be necessary, Supreme Leader."

 

Snoke's searching gaze pins Kylo Ren in place. "I sincerely hope not. I would be deeply disappointed if it came to that." He turns and fixes his attention on Hux. "General. Are you prepared to house the prisoner, should she still prove reluctant when she arrives on board?"

 

Hux smiles grimly, pride blooming in his pale eyes. "We are ready, Supreme Leader. A cell has been specially prepared in the detention block just as you requested. There will be a full company of my best troopers posted at all times ..."

 

"Stormtroopers?" Kylo blurts out. It doesn't matter, since Rey is never going to be in that cell, but he has to at least pretend to have a stake in this, and he would have wanted to watch over her himself. "General, do you really think that mere stormtroopers will be sufficient to contain her if she doesn't wish to be contained?" He doesn't have to feign the derision that drips from his words.

 

Hux's eyes are slitted and his lips pressed together in a thin line as he turns on his heel to face Kylo Ren, hands clasped tightly behind his back.

 

"Since I intend to leave her under guard by a considerable number of stormtroopers, instead of just _one_ ," Hux replies in acid tones, "I don't foresee a problem, Ren. My soldiers are quite capable and trustworthy, when they are _properly_ utilized."

 

"Assuming, of course,” Kylo Ren says softly, “that they don't manage to break their conditioning and go rogue.”

 

Hux is now white with rage. "FN-2187 was an aberration," he hisses, his eyes glinting fanatically, "and no such defections will happen again under my watch, I can assure you ..."

 

"Enough of this bickering," Supreme Leader interrupts. "We haven't the time for such childishness. General, tell me the rest of your plans.”

 

Hux shoots one final dagger-glance at Kylo Ren before resuming his little speech. "The girl will be sedated the moment she arrives on board, and kept sedated at all times until we return to base. As an extra precaution, she will also be muzzled. That way even if she does regain consciousness, she won't be able to influence her guards with any mind tricks." Hux sounds a bit too delighted with this prospect, and Kylo knows immediately that the muzzle was the general's own idea. He wants to hurt Hux. This is nothing new. What _is_ new is the sensation of wanting to hurt Hux for someone else's sake, and not simply because the man is an insufferable drooling sycophant.

 

 _Calm down,_ he admonishes himself. _After all, if you have your way, Hux will never have his._

 

“Kylo Ren?” Snoke is saying now. “Surely you have more you wish to say on the matter of the girl's confinement.”

 

He's not going to fall into this baited trap. It's too obvious, even for him. “Of course I would rather see to her guard myself,” he says carefully, “but if I fail to sway her, then … I don't deserve to have her as my captive.” He's just playing a part, but the words are still hard for him to say. “I attempted gentleness with her once. She repaid me with treachery and with _this_.” Briefly, he touches the scar on his face. “If you believe that harsher methods are required for her to learn her place, Supreme Leader, I certainly won't interfere. I came here to see your will done, not mine.” At least he doesn't have to sound happy about it.

 

“Good.” Snoke nods and looks at Hux once again. “General, you are dismissed. Set your course for the Dagobah system at once."

 

"Yes, Supreme Leader," Hux replies, tearing his glare away from Kylo Ren. “Long live the First Order.” He bows low before leaving the meeting room at top speed. Kylo Ren watches him go, wondering with a sick feeling if _he_ ever looked like that, tripping over himself to do Snoke's bidding. He suspects he has looked much more foolish. The surge of hatred that wells up in him is wild and vicious, directed at Snoke but also at himself. Mostly at himself. It's so overwhelming that he almost misses Snoke saying his name.

 

"Yes, Supreme Leader?" he answers, collecting himself a beat too late.

 

Snoke considers him with those cold, deep eyes. “You found the girl much more quickly than I would have believed possible,” he says. “It would appear that your powers have grown, these past few weeks.”

 

Is that suspicion in Snoke's cold tone? He hastens to allay it, putting on a mask of humility. “Thanks to your teachings, Supreme Leader.”

 

Snoke studies him for a long moment, in unblinking silence. _He's only a hologram,_ Kylo tries to remind himself, but nonetheless, it's not hard to imagine that he can feel the darkness emanating from Snoke's very image, creeping towards him, scratching at the edges of his mind.

 

“Are you still being haunted, my apprentice?”

 

“No.” Kylo's response is as hard and flat and cold as the surface of the Star Destroyer. “I have seen no ghosts since we last spoke, Supreme Leader. I swear it.”

 

“Your vows and promises mean little and less to me, Kylo Ren,” Snoke chides him. “It is your actions from this point on that will prove your worth to me. You would do well to remember that in your dealings with the girl.”

 

He inclines his head, the image of a shamed student, wanting to do better. The motions come naturally to him; this is the role he's been inhabiting for much of his life. “Yes, Supreme Leader. I will remember.”

 

Snoke makes him wait for a reply. When it comes, every word is cold, calculated, measured out with perfect precision. “Indeed. I wonder, Kylo Ren, if you will remember your true objective, when faced with the temptation that the girl presents to you.”

 

“My true objective?”

 

“To ensure, by whatever means necessary, that the girl is no longer a threat to us. While I know that your abilities are formidable, my apprentice, I also know that there is a weakness in you where the girl is concerned. I fear that you may hesitate to strike a killing blow.”

 

“I will not hesitate,” he says, hushed, fervent.

 

“We shall see,” Snoke answers, leaning forward slightly. “We shall see. I hope as much as you do that the girl can be turned, Kylo Ren. We could certainly use another strong Knight, to take dear departed Vekko's place. But do not let your hope blind to you to reality. It may not be the will of the Force for that little ray of light to join us.”

 

Something about Snoke's turn of phrase brings the wave of unease in Kylo roiling to the surface. Did he ever tell Snoke Rey's name? No, he's sure that he didn't. He's never even spoken it aloud, that he can remember. On Starkiller, he had picked it out of her mind, and kept it safe in his. Or he thought that he had.

 

“You have no more secrets, Kylo Ren,” Supreme Leader Snoke says, almost tenderly. “There is nothing you can hide from me.”

 

“Of course not, Supreme Leader. I know that now.” He doesn't really know any such thing; he has no idea at all how much Snoke knows, which lies he's already picked apart and seen through. If it even matters now. “Nor do I wish to keep things from you.”

 

“Good. Then we can have the truth between us. I know that you want to keep the girl alive so that you can have time to extract Luke Skywalker's location from her.”

 

Relief floods through Kylo like a drug. For once in his life, he's _not_ the one being played for a fool. “Forgive me for my preoccupation, Supreme Leader,” he murmurs, dropping his gaze. “Skywalker has troubled my mind for a long time.”

 

“And mine as well, my boy,” says Snoke. “But right now, Skywalker is the least of our problems. With his only padawan in our hands, what little spirit he has will be broken. If he does show himself, he will only make it that much easier to destroy him. Do not let your desire to hunt down Skywalker prevent you from killing the girl, if you must.”

 

“As you say, Supreme Leader.”

 

“Patience, my apprentice,” Snoke tells him dismissively. “Luke Skywalker will continue to do what he has done for the last decade … absolutely nothing. He remains a problem, but a problem we can deal with in due time. We have more immediate concerns. When you return from your mission and finish your training, I will share them with you.”

 

The numbness that had settled on him is disturbed by a flicker of doubt. This doesn't bode well. It sounds as though Snoke is planning something new, something big ... But there's nothing Kylo Ren can do about that. It changes nothing; he still lacks the power to destroy Snoke. His course is set, his fate decided. “Then I will look forward to our next meeting, Supreme Leader.”

 

“As will I, Kylo Ren. Very much so.” With one final, lingering stare, Supreme Leader Snoke lets his hologram crackle and fade away.

 

When he's gone, Kylo Ren exhales heavily. It's really happening. He's done it. Everything is in motion now. Whatever plans Snoke has in mind are none of his concern. He does not need to be concerned about anything. It hits him then: _There won't be any next meeting. I never have to see or speak to Supreme Leader again._ _Ever._

 

It feels like a physical weight has lifted from him. He is almost free. Soon, he'll be untouchable.

 

Alone in the room, he smiles.

 

__

 

 

Now, the Finalizer is in hyperspace, and he is in limbo.

 

He's both Kylo Ren and Ben Solo, or maybe he's neither of them. All he knows for certain is that he's doomed, and glad to be. Now that the decision has been made and the course laid in, he feels positively _light_.

 

There's only one question left to answer: what do you do when you know that you're about to die?

 

Other people, in other circumstances, would probably answer that question much differently. But he has wasted his whole life, so it only makes sense that he would waste the last few days of it. A long series of terrible choices, both the ones that were made for him and the ones he made himself, have led him here, have shaped his hollow shell of an existence. He has no goodbyes to say except those that are impossible. No possessions to give away. No one who will miss him.

 

General Hux certainly won't. When passing the general's quarters, Kylo is seized by impulse and breaks in, for the sole purpose of throwing Hux's meticulously ordered sock drawer into disarray. It's completely impulsive and utterly gratuitous, and yet oddly satisfying. There's no need to worry about consequences; by the time Hux gets around to reviewing the security footage, Kylo Ren will be far beyond the reach of his annoyance.

 

Apart from that small deviation, he does things much the same as usual. He drifts through his routines like he's been programmed: practices his lightsaber forms, meditates, takes his lonely meals, and when he's restless, he stands at a viewport and watches the stars streak by in light-speed. It reminds him of sitting on the Falcon with his mom and dad, once when he was small. He doesn't remember now, where they were going. That hadn't mattered; it never mattered where they went as long as they went together. What he remembers is the feeling when they jumped into hyperspace, how the ship moved like a living thing, the way the millions of points of light around them turned into bright streaks that dazzled his eyes. The way his dad did it like it was the easiest thing in the world, like it was nothing at all.

 

“Wow,” Ben had whispered, awestruck, staring out the viewport, white-knuckled hands digging into the edges of his seat.

 

His parents exchanged glances, and then his dad turned around to look at him, a slow grin spreading over his face, before turning back to stare out into space. Like he was rediscovering the thrill of traveling at light-speed. “Wow is right, kid,” Han Solo murmured.

 

Thinking of his mother is not allowed. Whenever he does, he's reminded that she will be able to feel him die. He knows that it will hurt her. All that he can do is hope, somehow, that she will come to understand. That knowing he's finally at peace will give her some measure of peace in return.

 

His father, though, still hovers around the edges of his mind, watching over him, and he doesn't discourage this. He hopes that he'll get to be with his father after he dies, but he's worried that he'll get lost out there in the Force, drifting for all eternity. He doesn't really know how it works and no answers are forthcoming, even if he could risk asking one of the ghosts he knows. Which he can't. So if this is the last time he has to spend with his father, he'll take it, gladly.

 

Assuming, of course, that his dad doesn't learn his plans. Despite his son's past accusations, Han Solo isn't foolish, not about everything, anyway. He's sharp and canny and it's only a matter of time before he realizes that his son's eerily calm demeanor isn't because he's thinking of turning his life around, but because he plans to throw it away.

 

_No, don't think of it like that. You threw your life away a long time ago._

 

He knows what his dad thinks. He thinks that Ben's going to go down to that planet and fall on his knees and apologize to Rey, be forgiven and welcomed with open arms, and fly off into the sunset while gunning down every First Order ship in their path, because that's what Han Solo would do. But he isn't his father. He isn't his grandfather, either. He is nothing but a series of terrible choices and those choices must end with this last one.

 

It occurs to him, as he drains the last of the nutritive milk drink that suffices as a meal on a Star Destroyer, that tomorrow will be the last day of his life. It seems that he should do something to mark the occasion, but he can't think of anything to do, so he just sits on his bunk for awhile. Finally he's forced to admit to himself that there's nothing left to do but go to sleep.

 

He flops down onto his bunk and pulls the thin blanket over his head, anticipating that he'll have a hard time getting his mind to quiet down. Instead, he falls into sleep like he's been dragged there.

 

His dreams are strange, sharp, disjointed things: vivid, consuming. Red-stained nebulas swirl slowly around him until he has to close his eyes. When he opens them again, he's standing in the corner of his childhood bedroom, staring at himself. He's small, no more than four, wearing a horrendous pair of green overalls and sitting on the floor of his room amidst a sea of destruction. Every toy he owns has been flung haphazardly across the room and he's in the middle of all of it. He raises one hand, frowning in concentration, and floats one of his wooden blocks in the air, and his frown breaks into a wide grin when he sees how high he can make it go.

 

When the door of his bedroom opens, the block falls to the floor and the grin falls from Ben's face as he remembers that his actions have consequences. His mother steps into the room, looking around, astonished.

 

“Hi, Mom,” Ben says sheepishly.

 

"Hi, sweetheart. This is quite a mess you've made,” Leia Organa observes dryly as her surprise fades into resignation.

 

"It sure is!" Ben exclaims, getting up and trying to run out of the room. He trips over a model X-wing, and his mom grabs him around the middle and sets him back on his feet, crouching down to look him in the eyes.

 

"We've talked about this, Ben. When you make a mess, what do you have to do?"

 

He bites his lip and frowns. "I have to clean it up."

 

"That's right." His mom nods and then surveys the damage. "And this one is going to take a long time. So, you'd better get started."

 

Little Ben looks around at the scope of the mess and his eyes widen as he's clearly overwhelmed by what he's managed to do, and what he has to do now to make up for it.

 

"Will you help me?" he asks his mom, tugging at her sleeve. "Please, please?"

 

His mother considers him for a moment, and her stern expression breaks into a smile. "Since you asked so nicely ... all right."

 

Ben throws his arms around his mother's neck and hugs her. "I'm sorry, Mommy," he says, his voice muffled.

 

His mother hugs him back, smiling, and kisses the top of his head. "That's my good boy."

 

From his place in the corner, Kylo Ren makes a soft noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

 

That's when mother and son both look up, noticing him, _fearing_ him. Leia's arms tighten around Ben and she tries to shield him. From himself.

 

"Don't do this," she says, anger and sorrow in her eyes. “Don't take him from me. _Please._ Can't you see? He's all I have left."

 

Kylo Ren doesn't know what to say. He thought he was just a silent observer. He didn't know that he would have to be accountable for his presence in his own dream.

 

"I don't wanna die," Ben says. He's still clinging to his mother, but he meets Kylo Ren's stare bravely. "I haven't even _lived_."

 

Kylo Ren closes his eyes, unable to bear the weight of their pleading stares, their matching eyes. When he becomes aware again, he's walking through a desert, hand in hand with his younger self. Ben stumbles and Kylo Ren slows his stride to match the pace of the child's.

 

“I don't wanna die,” the boy says softly.

 

“I'm sorry,” Kylo tells him, meaning it.

 

There's silence between them for a moment as they walk.

 

“Will it hurt?” Ben asks finally.

 

“Only for a minute,” Kylo promises.

 

The dream shifts again and he sees his mother and father, both looking absurdly young, at a party of some kind. _No, not a party. A wedding._ His dad is giddy, grinning, spinning his mom in a graceless but enthusiastic dance. Her long brown hair flies out behind her and she's laughing, more carefree than he's ever seen her. Her white dress clings to her middle, and that's how Ben knows that he's there, too. One more spin and they're gone, now he's the one who's spinning, and he lands on a terrace of marble, on his hands and knees. He scrambles to his feet, looking around him. It's nighttime, the only light coming from the moon and stars above. The air is thick with a flowery scent that he recognizes from somewhere. For a moment he thinks that the woman with the long brown hair, standing at the balcony with her back to him, must be his mom, but when she turns to face him he sees the truth.

 

His grandmother looks at him with so much sadness. “Do you see that?” She sweeps her arm toward the stars. There are so many of them, glittering in the darkness. “Don't you know that they're in trouble? Can you really abandon all of them?” Her voice is sweet and strong, but there's a quaver in it. Somehow he knows she's not talking about the points of light themselves, but the people who live on them.

 

“I know what I have to do,” he says.

 

Padme crosses the terrace to Ben, her long blue skirt dragging behind her, and she stands before him, small but unbreakable, and takes his face in her hands, looking up at him with tears sparkling in her brown eyes, tears of anger as well as sadness. She looks so much like his mom. “You're breaking my heart,” she tells him.

 

Ben tries to argue but no words come out of his mouth. He can't even breathe anymore. The dream is turning again and he's underwater, choking on the salt of the sea, fumbling through the dark and the cold for a surface he can't find. Until two arms wrap around him, dragging him up, his head breaking the surface, and he gasps, filling his lungs with air. He kicks, helping his rescuer drag him to the beach. He coughs up water while his uncle looks down at him, hand on his shoulder, a grave certainty in his blue eyes. Luke Skywalker's voice breaks over him, powerful as a wave. “I know there is good in you,” he says.

 

“It's too late,” Ben says in a choked voice. But there's no one to argue with, his uncle is already gone, and he's closing his eyes and finds himself on a planet that doesn't exist anymore: Hosnian Prime. A planet where he lived with his parents as a child. A planet he saw reduced to cosmic rubble. But right now, the planet is vibrantly alive, and celebrating something. Fireworks, the most brilliant colors he's ever seen, light up a night sky and reflect in the shiny surfaces of the tall buildings. Ben can see everything perfectly. There's nothing like the view from a Wookiee's shoulders.

 

They're so LOUD, Chewie roars with dismay, as the fireworks explode.

 

“But they're so pretty!” Ben yells back. There's an aftertaste of sweetness in his mouth, the flavor of some candy he used to love but can't even remember the name of now. He closes his eyes in an attempt to remember it, but when he opens them again he finds himself at a shooting gallery, staring a target that seems impossibly far away. Han Solo drops to a crouch beside him, and presses a blaster into his hand. It's been adapted to fit a child's grip, and it's lighter than Ben had expected. He looks up at his father, doubtfully.

 

“How'm I gonna hit that?” he whines. “It's so far.”

 

“Just shoot straight, kid,” his dad says. “Like this.” He wraps his hand around Ben's, showing him how to aim.

 

“Why do I have to learn this?” Ben demands.

 

“Because,” his dad says impatiently, “it's a dangerous galaxy out there, Ben, and I want you to be able to protect yourself.”

 

Ben cocks his head. “What about you and Mom?”

 

His dad smiles at him and then ruffles his hair. “Well, kid, I guess one day you'll have to protect us, too.”

 

Now the ground is tilting and spilling Ben back into the desert, where he lands on the ground, falling hard on his back. He blinks up at the sky, and sees Obi-Wan Kenobi looking down at him. The old Jedi shakes his head. "Ben, you damn fool," he mutters, but the corners of his mouth are twitching as though he's suppressing a smile, and he extends a hand to help Ben to his feet. Ben reaches up and takes it, but the next second the hand he's holding doesn't belong to Obi-Wan anymore, it's a girl's hand and he looks up and sees ...

 

  _... Rey?_

 

He must have fallen into someone else's dream, because she's smiling, and why would she ever smile at him?

 

She hauls him easily to his feet, as if he and all his sins weigh nothing. "Let's go home.”

 

"I don't have a home," he tells her.

 

She frowns at him. “You're an idiot.”

 

He'd like to be able to refute that statement, but before he can, a roar of wind drowns out his words and the sand swirls up around the two of them. A man appears, a man in black, his golden-brown hair whipped by the wind, drawn lightsaber glowing like a blue flame in his hand. Ben and Rey look at him, and he looks back at them, his handsome features set, stubborn, his blue eyes blazing with the importance of his message.

 

“There's a storm coming,” Anakin Skywalker tells them ominously. And then he vanishes.

 

As if in response to his words, the winds rise and the sand whirls up and threatens to swallow the two of them. The wind is so strong that it actually starts to lift Rey off the ground and Ben reacts instinctively, reaching out to grab both her hands and hold her in place. Fear is stark on her face and she holds on with a steely grip. Ben knows that if he lets go of her, she'll be lost. And senses, as the ground starts to slide away beneath his feet, that the reverse is also true. But all he wants to do is disappear like his grandfather, because the storm frightens him as well. Frightens him badly.

 

“I don't want to have to do this alone!” Rey yells at him, sensing him faltering, weakening.

 

“Well, what do you want _me_ to do?” Ben yells back, scared and angry.

 

The wind dies down so suddenly it spills Rey to the ground and she takes Ben with her, the two of them landing in a painful, tangled heap. Looking down at him, framed by the light of twin suns, she takes his face in her hands, glares down at him, and furiously speaks two words. " _Wake up_."

 

With a start, he does.

 

He sits bolt upright, looking frantically around his darkened quarters as though searching for intruders, but they were all inside his head. His heart and his mind are both racing, and he's short of breath as if he had actually been all those places. Slowly, he touches his face. He could swear he still feels the warmth of the desert suns …

 

Breathing hard, he flops back down on the flat mattress. He's exhausted, like he hasn't slept at all, and for the first time in a long time, he's once again doubtful, once again afraid. And angry. Very angry.

 

He rolls over and punches the wall next to his bunk, the pain of the impact singing through his knuckles and spreading up his arm before it fades to numbness. Then he starts punching his pillow, gritting his teeth, until he curls up again, shaking. He wraps his arms around himself and closes his eyes in despair.

 

Why? Why did this dream have to come upon him now? Now, when he was so certain of the path that lay before him?

 

No, he still is certain. It was only a dream. He's awake now. In the real world, there is no helping hand to drag him to his feet. In the real world, he's alone … until he isn't.

 

_You okay, Ben?_

 

 _Dad._ He sighs, his breathing slowly returning to normal, his tension dissolving slightly. He has to at least pretend to be all right. _I'm fine. It was just …_

 

… _a nightmare?_

 

It hadn't been, not really, but then, isn't a nightmare just a dream that scares you? And Ben is scared. _Yeah. A nightmare._

 

 _I remember when you used to get those, when you were little,_ his father reminisces. _Sometimes you'd come running into our room in the middle of the night, do you remember?_

 

 _Yeah._ Maybe it's because he's still a bit sleepy, maybe it's because he's a dead man walking with nothing left to lose, but he can't keep his guard up. The memories pass through his mind with relatively little pain. _You and Mom used to let me sleep in between you._

 

 _I'd always wake up with dented ribs from you kicking me in the night_.

 

_Sorry about that._

 

 _I wish …_ his dad says, and then stops short.

 

_What? What do you wish?_

 

 _Forget it, kid._ His father's sadness can't be hidden, can't be ignored.

 

 _I don't want to forget it,_ Ben confesses, _I want … I want to remember._

 

And he does want to, even though it hurts. Maybe because it hurts. He thinks of his dream, sees the small version of himself clinging to his mother. _I don't want to die. I haven't even lived._ He thinks of all the things he's never done, will never do: never stand in that meadow on Naboo that his grandfather showed him. Never kiss a girl. Never get drunk. Never take an apprentice. Never hold a child of his own in his arms. He doesn't know if he would have done any those things anyway. He can't know what he would have done, only what he has done. And what he has done is too much to make up for. A mess too big to ever be cleaned up.

 

Guilt writhes inside of him, but the damage is done. There is no undoing it. Ben Solo is going to die. That is decided. But once upon a time, he _did_ live. And sometimes, he was happy. That will have to be enough. He has no future, but right now, in the darkness, he wants to hold on to the good parts of the past. Just for now, he will not think about the monster he's become. He will recall who he used to be. His mother and father's son.

 

 _Do you remember teaching me how to shoot a blaster?_ he asks his father.

 

_Sure do. You whined and whined about you couldn't hit the target and it was too far away and why did you have to learn how to shoot anyway, and then what'd you do? Hit the target dead-center on your first try._

 

He remembers now. He'd been so surprised, and his dad had been delighted with him. Now he doesn't even remember the last time he held a blaster. Once he picked up a lightsaber, he never looked back.

 

 _Do you remember that song I used to sing to you?_ his father says.

 

He snorts. _“Captain Dick's Home Run?”_ _I can't believe that was your idea of a lullaby. There are about fifty innuendos in the first verse alone._

 

_Hey, you never complained!_

 

Ben catches himself smirking with long-forgotten mischief as another memory flashes through his mind. _Do you remember the time when Threepio fell down all those stairs at Admiral Ackbar's birthday party?_

 

_Ben. He didn't fall. You_ _**pushed** _ _him._

 

_You_ _**told** _ _me to._

 

_Well, I was joking!_

 

_Well, I didn't know that. Besides, you laughed harder than anyone._

 

_Except for your mom. She pretended to be mad at the party but once we got home, she laughed for about an hour._

 

 _More like two hours,_ Ben corrects. _Every time she tried to stop, she'd start again._

 

_That's nothing. What about the time …_

 

The two of them trade memories for hours, until Ben can't keep his eyes open anymore.

 

This time, when he sleeps, he rests.

 

__

 

He wakes to the annoying beeping of the commlink.

 

“What?” he snarls, rolling onto his side and pushing the hair out of his eyes. Regardless of how much sleep he's had, he's never pleasant to be around when he wakes up.

 

“Oh, I'm terribly sorry, Ren,” General Hux's smug voice assaults him through the comm. “Did I wake you? How thoughtless of me.”

 

The muffled growl that emerges from Kylo Ren's throat could easily be interpreted as mere frustration, but it's actually an obscenity in Shyriiwook. “What is it, Hux?”

 

The general is all business now. “I thought you'd like to know that we have entered the Dagobah system. We are currently orbiting the planet you indicated. Our sensors are all but useless here, but a scout did report seeing a ship making its way to the planet's surface a short time ago, and ...”

 

He sits up and throws off his blanket. “I'm on my way.” He smashes the button and turns off the conversation, climbs out of bed, and goes about the business of getting dressed up to die.

 

The uncertainty brought on by last night's dream, the doubt, still buzzes at the edges of his mind, but he stays stone-faced and ignores it. His conversation with his father is a fuzzy thing, dulled by sleep, and that was never going to sway him, anyhow. This is his decision, still the only right decision, and he stands by it with all the fanaticism with which he once stood by Snoke. He puts on pants and tunic and arm guards and gloves and cowl, and he brushes his hair, and, collecting his lightsaber, he straps it to his belt. It feels heavier than usual, as if bearing the weight of all the lives its taken.

 

They will all have their reckoning today.

 

Ben turns around slowly, looking at his mostly empty quarters. He takes a last look at the ruined chunk of metal that once hid his grandfather's face. Wonders what the First Order will do with it, when he's gone. Realizes it doesn't matter.

 

 _Soon,_ he silently promises Anakin Skywalker. _Soon, it will all be finished. I know this isn't what you wanted for me, Grandfather, but it's too late for that now. I hope you understand. And Grandmother, too, if you can hear me. I'm sorry._

 

He leaves for the hangar, turning his back on Darth Vader's mask for the last time.

 

__

 

His sleek black shuttle is waiting for him when he arrives, crouched like a wicked winged creature carved from the night. Unfortunately, Hux is also waiting beside the lowered ramp.

 

“Do you have some business to discuss with me, General?” Kylo Ren demands.

 

“Only to see you off,” says Hux without the slightest hint of camaraderie. “And to remind you of the importance of your mission.”

 

Kylo cocks his head and permits himself a smirk. “I hadn't realized that it meant so much to you.”

 

“What is important to the Supreme Leader is important to me,” Hux says primly. “I wish you success in your endeavor with the girl, Ren. But my troopers and I are prepared for your failure.”

 

“I don't intend to fail, General.”

 

“Of course you don't,” Hux answers, gently mocking. “But as we both know, even the best intentions may be derailed. And when they are, Ren, I will be ready to take up the slack that you dropped … yet again.”

 

Kylo Ren's hand twitches. Longingly, he imagines how easy it would be just to snap Hux's neck and hide his body behind a crate. Well, he can add that to his already long list of regrets. A missing general wouldn't even go unnoticed long enough for him to make it to the planet's surface, let alone carry out his “mission.” Someone else will have to have the pleasure of killing Hux.

 

He, turning his back on the general and boarding the shuttle without another word, will have to settle for the pleasure of being the only one to know why Hux is wearing one black sock and one blue.

 

__

 

The sleek interior of the Upsilon shuttle is familiar after all this time, but it doesn't feel the same without other people manning it. As he settles into the pilot's chair, unease and uncertainty descend over him like a black cloud. It's not a disturbance in the Force, it's not a premonition of doom. It's his own insecurity tripping him up, as he stares down at the controls and his gloved hands and tries to make the two of them work together, even in his mind.

 

"What's the holdup, kid?" his father asks him, materializing in the co-pilot's chair.

 

 _Wonderful._ Exactly what he needs right now, Han Solo witnessing his failure. _This is just perfect._ There's no doubt in his mind that the shuttle is bugged, but soon that won't matter. And even though he's grudging, part of him his grateful. At least he'll get to see his father, talk out loud to him, one last time. If it is the last time.

 

"I'm just ... getting situated," he says, cracking his knuckles. It's mostly as an excuse not to have to push any of the buttons quite yet. Anxiety buzzes through him like a swarm of Akivan redjackets, and he can feel an old but still familiar queasiness in his stomach.

 

"How situated do you have to get? It's your own damn shuttle, after all." Ben is stubbornly silent, and his father puts it together pretty quickly. "Oh, great. Don't tell me. You've never actually flown this thing yourself, have you?"

 

Ben glowers at his father's ghost. "No."

 

His father's eyebrows are raised, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Not even once? For fun?"

 

 _Fun?_ Fun hasn't been on his agenda since ... well, since the last time he can remember. His little rearrangement of Hux's sock drawer was the closest thing he's had to recreation in years. Supreme Leader Snoke doesn't exactly encourage joyrides in First Order vehicles, and besides ...

 

"I'm not a pilot, you know.”

 

His father sighs, a slightly exasperated smile playing across his features. "Come on, Ben. I _know_ you know how to fly. I taught you myself!"

 

"You described my flying style as 'graceless' and 'hopeless,'” he reminds his dad.

 

"Sure, but that was ages ago," Han Solo argues. "Pull yourself together, kid. You're smart, you can figure this out."

 

"It's not ... it's not figuring it out that's the problem," he says, trying to make his father understand. "It's not just that I'm _bad_ at flying, okay? I'm ..." Afraid to fly. He can feel his face getting red. He can't say it out loud; he's Anakin Skywalker's grandson, Han Solo's son, and not only is he an abysmal pilot, but he panics whenever he's behind the controls of a ship. It's pathetic and shameful, but for most of his life it hasn't been much of an issue. There's always someone who can be pressed into service to shuttle Kylo Ren, commander of the First Order, around. But Ben Solo just has his father's ghost and a dry mouth and a pair of shaking hands. He can't have someone ferry him to this destination; he has to do it himself, has to go alone. He promised.

 

So he doesn't say it, but he knows his father knows. The frown on Han Solo's spectral features smooths out and he smiles instead, reassuringly.

 

"Don't sweat it, kid," he says. "It's a straight shot down to the planet. Even you can't mess this up. First things first … buckle up.”

 

He raises an eyebrow at his father. “Are you serious?”

 

“Hey, safety ain't just for kids! Besides, if your flying is as bad as I remember, you're gonna need it.”

 

Grumbling, Ben fastens the restraining harness that will keep him in his seat if the flight gets rough. Which it probably will.

 

“Okay now … it kind of helps if the engines are on,” his dad prods.

 

“Ha,” he answers humorlessly. Somehow his fumbling fingers manage find the right controls. The console lights up and he lays in the course for the planet below, and he feels the shuttle come to life around him. Instead of being encouraging, this just makes him even more nervous, because the sooner the shuttle is ready to fly, the sooner he actually has to fly it. The stormy atmosphere of Dagobah interferes with computers and makes autonavs rather less than useful, so he's going to have to do a lot of manual piloting, and he's really not looking forward to that. His dad talks him through the rest of the takeoff procedures, checking every control until he's satisfied.

 

"Great," Han Solo says. "She's hot and ready to go, kid. Is your flight path clear?"

 

"I … don't know."

 

"Well, how you do find out?"

 

He can't tell if he's being patronized or not, but even if he is, he deserves it for getting into this situation in the first place. "Ask the control room if the shuttle is cleared for takeoff."

 

"That'd be the thing to do." Han Solo's tone is dry and his eyes are sparkling. His son growls irritation and hits the comm button perhaps harder than is strictly necessary.

 

"Control Room, this is Kylo Ren," he snaps out. "Am I cleared for departure?"

 

"Sir, yes, sir, your shuttle is cleared for takeoff, you may proceed, sir!" some overeager and clearly terrified ensign yelps through the comm.

 

"I was afraid they'd say that," Ben mutters.

 

"Don't be afraid, Ben," his dad tells him. "Don't over-think it. Just take her out of the hangar, slow and steady."

 

Slow and steady. Right. He can do this.

 

The shuttle lifts off, shuddering ever so slightly rather than handling with perfect smoothness as it would with a more skilled pilot. Still, it's designed to be light and easy to operate, so they're clearing the length of the hangar in a matter of seconds, and before he knows it, the shuttle is spilling out into space.

 

“Good, kid,” his dad says encouragingly. “A little bumpy, but … okay. Now you just have to take her down to the planet.”

 

“I know, I know,” Ben says under his breath. His chest is tight and he's sweating, no more confident than he was before. He gulps for air and closes his eyes, trying to breathe, to calm down …

 

“Dammit, Ben, you can't close your eyes!” Han Solo snaps, and Ben's eyes fly back open, staring out the viewport at the blackness of space, the gleaming of the stars, and the distant, murky surface of the planet below.

 

“Sorry,” he chokes out, steering the ship back on course with shaky hands.

 

“Don't apologize to _me_ ,” his father says, shaking his head. “I'm not the one who'll be in trouble if you crash this thing. Just … keep her on course, all right? And keep your eyes _open_.”

 

A few silent minutes pass as the shuttle makes its descent under his dubious guidance. He's still ill at ease, but his breathing has evened out somewhat, his body unable to maintain such a high level of anxiety for very long. His hands are a little bit steadier now, his mind slightly clearer. Nothing about the situation is ideal, but it doesn't have to be. He just has to make it to the surface of that planet. That's all he has to worry about now.

 

Well, that, and his father's questions.

 

“So, you already said you aren't going to hurt Rey,”Han Solo says all of a sudden, “but what if things get heated and she hurts you?”

 

His heart stutters slightly. Could his father have guessed what he's really planning? “What makes you think that will happen?”

 

His dad laughs a little. “Well, no offense, kid, but have you looked in the mirror lately?”

 

“Ha,” Ben says, resisting the urge to touch his scar. He keeps both hands on the controls.

 

“I'm serious,”his dad continues. “Don't get me wrong, one facial scar is kinda dashing, but if she nails you in the face with that lightsaber again, you're really going to wish you had that bucket back on your head.”

 

“You're hilarious,” Ben mutters.

 

“I know I am.” There's a brief pause, and his father's voice gets lower, grumbly. “You could smile, though.”

 

He dares a quick glance at his father. “Is that what you're trying to do? Make me smile?”

 

Han Solo shrugs, looking almost sad. “Maybe. I guess I just miss your smile, Ben. Your real smile, not that stupid smirk thing that you do these days.”

 

The “stupid smirk thing” is the mirror image of a look his father often wore in life, and he's smashed more than one mirror on account of it, but maybe this isn't the time to mention that. He wishes that he could smile, if that's what his father wants, but he's way too tense right now.

 

“When something is actually funny,” he says, “then I'll smile.”

 

“Fair enough, kid.”

 

By now, the planet is looming ever larger in the viewport, the surface a clouded, grayish-green. The tension seems to be fading slightly, a calm settling over Ben. Piloting the shuttle feels less like wrestling a krayt dragon and more like, well … piloting a shuttle. Whether it's his dad's banter or just the fact that the end is in sight, he's feeling almost relaxed.

 

Until the shuttle enters the planet's atmosphere, and everything goes straight to hell.

 

First, he loses sensors. Fog engulfs the shuttle, covering the viewport, blocking everything else. Ben tries not to let that bother him, after all, at this point down is down. But then, the shuttle jolts sharply, flinging Ben against his harness, and his hands slip off the controls for a second. It's hardly enough to make a difference, but it's still terrifying.

 

“Well, we knew it'd be a rough ride,” Han Solo says from the co-pilot's chair. “You're doing great, Ben. Just hang in there.”

 

Ben just nods, unable to speak. He's sweating. If he made it all the way to this point just to die because he's a shit pilot …

 

Another jolt slams into the shuttle. The fog is just as thick as before and the sensors are still virtually useless, and this time there's an ominous noise, a crackling. They're being hit by lightning … repeatedly.

 

“I've got a bad feeling about this,” Han Solo mutters.

 

“What happened to 'you're doing great, kid'?” Ben demands, his heart thudding with fear as he wrestles with the controls, fighting with Dagobah's atmosphere for control of the shuttle. Every time he thinks he's managed to get it back on course, another strike throws him off again. The next one is even harder, and sparks fly from the console, and alarms start going off.

 

“You _are_ doing great!” his father yells over the noise of the alarms. “But the atmosphere's doing one better!”

 

The console is still sparking slightly, smoke rising in thin tendrils from beneath some of the controls. Red lights are flashing and klaxons are screaming and as Ben slams his hands on the control panel, it stops sparking.

 

Unfortunately, it stops doing everything else too. All the lights go dead. All the buttons stop responding.

 

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Ben says very quietly.

 

“Try hitting it again,” his dad says.

 

He does, but it doesn't do anything. “The controls are fried! I'm not going to be able to land. What do I do now?”

 

“Brace yourself,” his dad says grimly.

 

The shuttle is dropping like a stone. Or maybe it just feels that way. They hadn't been that far up when he lost sensors, so why does it feel like they've been crashing for a million years?

 

Then the shuttle hits something solid, slamming Ben hard against his restraining hard, knocking the wind out of him and whipping his head back painfully. He thinks it's the beginning of the end, just one of a series of impacts that will leave him broken in the pilot's seat, a battered corpse to be ignominiously collected by a retrieval team, but nothing else happens. Everything else in the shuttle is dead now, even the sirens, even the lights. Everything is smoking. Han Solo is nowhere to be seen.

 

Ben ends up having to carve his way out of the shuttle with his lightsaber because the ramp won't lower. The circle of metal falls about twenty feet to the ground through the canopy of trees that the wrecked shuttle is caught in. They must have been a lot closer than he thought. Ben jumps, landing in a crouch on the muddy ground below. Straightening up, he instantly feels like the air of Dagobah is choking him; it's thick and wet and swampy. And dark.

 

“Well,” Han Solo says, appearing next to his son and looking up, surveying the wreckage of the shuttle. “Guess you won't be making the return trip in this thing.”

 

“I guess not,” Ben answers. As he looks up at the wreckage of the shuttle, the battered hull and the burned hole in the side and the cracked viewport, he feels … _light._ One by one, his connections to the First Order are being severed. He feels like his strings have been cut.

 

_This is my choice now. Just mine._

 

“There it is!” his dad exclaims, turning to face him, his eyes lighting up, crinkling at the corners. “That smile.”

 

Ben hadn't even realized that he was smiling. Once he feels it, he can't do it anymore. But it seems to be enough for his father, who looks like he's been handed a gift he's been waiting for years to receive.

 

“Well … that was … fun,” Ben allows. Well, parts of it had been. Most of it had been nightmarish and embarrassing. “I should … I should go now, though. There isn't much time.”

 

“Do you want me to walk with you?” his dad asks him. “I could help you talk to her, if you want, help you explain ...”

 

Ben shakes his head emphatically. He knew that this moment would come, the moment when he would have to leave his father behind, but it still hurts. It hurts a lot.

 

“I think I ought to do this part alone,” he says quietly.

 

“Okay. I understand.” His dad nods, and then he smiles crookedly. “Just try not to piss Rey off, okay? I think your mom wants you back with all your limbs attached.”

 

Guilt stabs at him. Lying to his dad makes him feel even more worthless than he already did … but it's for the best.

 

Ben starts to speak, but then he pauses. He doesn't know what to say. These are the last words he'll speak to his father in his life. He wants them to mean something, to matter. “D-dad ...” The name, spoken aloud, is still a relic of childhood, clumsy on his tongue. “Dad, I ...” He closes his eyes, fighting back the tears that threaten him. “I want you to know …”

 

What? What does he want his father to know? There is nothing he can say that isn't selfish and horrible. He can't tell his father he's sorry. Can't speak of love. Can't even bear to think about how much he wishes he could just have one stupid _hug_ from his father, because it's entirely his fault that he can't. But he tries, he tries to think of something, anything. “I want you to know that ...”

 

His dad can tell he's struggling. “Hey, kid. Don't worry. Whatever it is, you can tell me later, okay?”

 

He closes his eyes again, and turns his face to the side so his dad can't see the single tear that traces its way down his cheek. “Right. Later.”

 

He turns his back on his father's ghost, furiously blinking back his tears, poised to walk away for the last time, and carry all his guilt with him, walking to the beat of the words battering the inside of his head: _fool_ _coward weakling traitor monster MURDERER ..._

 

“Ben,” his dad says suddenly, urgently.

 

Fighting to control his facial expressions, he turns back and sees his father standing there, looking at him with hope, and love, and more than a little pride.

 

“May the Force be with you,” Han Solo says, smiling.

 

“Thank you, Dad,” Ben whispers. He manages, somehow, to give his father one small, brief smile in return.

 

With one last look at his dad's face, he finally turns away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ben flying the shuttle = me writing this chapter TBH. (Except I don't have a ghostly co-pilot)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is about to die, and he can't remember the last time he felt so alive.

This place is made of darkness.

 

Black clouds cover every inch of the Dagobah sky, and the immense trees crowd together, hung with vines that blot out any remaining evidence of a sun. It might as well be night on Dagobah, and it only seems to get darker with every step he takes.

 

Even the air here is a heavy thing, charged and electric, weighted with the scent of impending rain. A streak of lightning brightens the sky eerily; moments later, a crash of thunder follows, and he feels it echo though his bones.

 

The Force is strong here, just as he has always heard. He can feel it flowing around him and through him, guiding his footsteps, urging him along through the trees, towards the girl.

 

Towards the end.

 

This should frighten him, maybe, or invigorate him, perhaps; it should make him feel _something_ , but it doesn't. The farther away he gets from the crash site, from the place he left his father, the less he feels … anything. The numbness of the past three days is coming upon him again, seeping though his veins, and he wants to let it take him … but there's still part of his foolish heart that's still struggling to be felt, to be heard. And an equally foolish part of him that's still listening.

 

_This is wrong._

 

His stride falters, just for a moment, and he clenches his fists at his sides. _No, it's not wrong. It_ _ **has**_ _to be right. It's the only choice I have._

 

_If it's the only choice you have, then it's not much of a choice, is it?_ The voice in his head is smug and bratty and makes a good point. It reminds him of the last time he thought he didn't have a choice. It plays back the look on his father's face when the lightsaber went through him.

 

_That's enough._ He pushes the thoughts aside, away.

 

He's come a long way while arguing with himself, and suddenly he stops. The very air seems to stop. There's a gap in the trees ahead, and he knows what waits beyond it. He can feel her there; the rough golden light of her, dappled with shadows.

 

Once again, he's not prepared. He stops for a moment, and turns, pressing a hand over his mouth to hold back the rough rasp of his own breath. _Nervous now, Ben?_   If he's really not afraid of dying, then what could possibly be causing his heart to twist inside his chest, his palms to sweat inside his gloves, his cheeks to prickle and burn? Why does he suddenly want to turn around and run back the way he came, begging for his father's help?

 

When he hears the rustling in the trees behind him, he knows that he should turn, but he finds himself frozen in place.

 

"Well, you got what you wanted." Her voice is hot with anger, and he can feel the tension rolling off of her in waves. "I'm here."

 

He closes his eyes. Releases a quiet sigh. The anxiety, the fear that had gripped him ... it has all faded away at the sound of her voice.

 

Slowly, he turns to face her.

 

Rey's hand is halfway to her belt, reaching for her lightsaber, but when she sees his face, she freezes too. Her lips part slightly in surprise, in unease, and her wide eyes rake the length and breadth of the scar she gave him. He takes this time to study her, too. She's different from the girl who left him bleeding in the snow. Yes, her clothes are new, gray in color, and yes, she's altered her hairstyle, trading in her childish buns for a high ponytail. And yes, she seems to have filled out slightly, there's healthy color in her cheeks; a glossy sheen to her hair … she isn't starving anymore. All the same, she looks weary.

 

When she notices him scrutinizing her, she composes herself at once, pressing her lips together in a thin line and resting her hand on the hilt of her saber. Telling him, with the way she shifts her body, that she's ready to draw it the second he gives her a reason.

 

And he will give her a reason, but not yet. The condemned, even the unworthiest of them, are entitled to a last meal. He will settle for a last conversation, one final moment of human connection, even if it is with somebody who loathes him. Even if it only makes her loathe him more.

 

"What's the matter?" he asks her, his voice soft in the heavy, humid air. "Does the sight of your own handiwork upset you?"

 

She releases her breath harshly. Before he spoke, there had still been something about the look on her face … something open, receptive, almost vulnerable. In the instant that he opened his mouth, all hints of softness had vanished. "Why would it upset me?" she snaps. "I don't feel bad about cutting your face, if that's what you're asking."

 

"I see." He cocks his head, studying her. Still trying to make sense of her, even now, when it doesn't matter. "So it doesn't trouble you at all that, confronted with an already weakened opponent, your solution wasn't to grant me a clean death, but to brand me with the marks of your savagery?"

 

Her astonishment quickly simmers to a righteous anger. "My ... _my_ savagery? You … I'm not the one who ..." She stops, flinching as though the words are so bad she doesn't even want to say them. As if even thinking about it hurts. And he knows that it does, because it hurts him too.

 

"Go on," he murmurs. "You can say it. You're not the one who killed your own father."

 

Thunder follows his words. There's a glimmer of tears starting on Rey's lashes, but she blinks them away and takes her hand off the hilt of her lightsaber, wrapping her arms around herself.

 

"Doesn't that trouble you at all?" she challenges him, tilting her chin. "What _you_ did?"

 

He bites his lip, looking down and back up quickly. _Stop faltering, Ben._ He's not here to win her sympathy, as if he ever could. He's here to get himself killed, and if he had any sense he would have attacked her already.

 

"What do you think?" To his own ears, he sounds tired, already defeated before he's even ignited his weapon.

 

"I think it haunts you," Rey says bitterly. "I think that's why you kept that scar on your face. You know that you deserve it. You wanted your outsides to match your insides. I think you know in your heart that your father died trying to save you and that he died for nothing."

 

He draws a shuddering breath, wishing that he could tell her how right she is. But he can't, and he hates how the words he swore that he would never say pass through her lips, like poison thrown in his face.

 

So he flings some poison of his own. "Han Solo always was a fool," he tells her quietly, the words twisting like knives inside of him. "Honestly, I'm surprised that he lived long enough for me to be the one to kill him."

 

Rey's jaw works, her eyes flashing. If only looks could kill, he'd have died several times already. He can feel her fury with him, her disgust, but even stronger, he can feel her disappointment. As if she had expected better, even from him. As if she can't even wrap her mind around his brand of wickedness. "You're awful," she whispers. “How can you be so awful?” She puts a strange emphasis on the word _you_ but he doesn't stop to think about why.

 

"Think what you want about me, but know this, Rey … you could easily be awful, too."

 

"Well, then, I guess that's the difference between me and you," Rey says shakily, her hand returning to her saber hilt. "I don't _want_ to be awful. And I'm not going to be."

 

He smirks, a hollow imitation of a smile. "We'll see about that."

 

"Don't do that.”

 

"Don't do what?"

 

Rey opens her mouth and seems to struggle for words. “Anything,” she says finally, furiously.

 

He shrugs. "All right." He knows he's already dragged this out too long. He still has to fight and die and leave plenty of time for her to get out of here once she's finished with him. For one morbid second, he wonders what will become of his body. He can't imagine that Rey will bury him, even if she has the time. A funeral pyre probably wouldn't even burn on this soggy planet. He wonders if the First Order will bother to retrieve his corpse, or if they'll just leave him there to rot. He wonders if it will bother his mother, not having a grave to visit; if she would even bother to visit him if he had one …

 

_Enough._ The pain beats on steadily inside of him like a second heart, and he lets it stay there. Knows he can never rid himself of it. He lets the pain remind him, once again, why he is doing this. Because obviously, he needs to be reminded.

 

Lightning flashes across the sky, casting jagged shadows across Rey's face, making a frightening thing of her. A growl of thunder follows, and Ben feels a single raindrop hit his cheek.

 

He draws his lightsaber and ignites it, feeling the wild heat come to life in his gloved hand, holding on to the raw, untamed energy in his grasp, not knowing whether to be relieved or sorry that this is the last time he will wield it. Rey follows his lead, raising her weapon, the blue blade of Anakin Skywalker's lightsaber glowing bright as a beacon through the darkness.

 

"So that's it, then?" she asks him. Her voice is heavy, resigned.

 

He only nods, swirling his saber through the air.

 

"What happens?" she says suddenly. "After?"

 

He ought to taunt her, to tell her he plans to give to her to Snoke, of all the horrible things that will happen to her in the grip of the First Order … but he can't bring himself to tell that lie.

 

"I guess we'll both find out,” he says softly. And charges her.

 

She gets her saber up in time, blocking his hard strike and pushing him back a few inches in the process. It's impressive, considering the fierceness of his charge. Rey is using all the strength in her body to keep him at bay as he bears down on her, but she's doing it well.

 

“Your form has improved, I see,” he remarks over the sound of the rising wind.

 

Her only answer is to grit her teeth and shove him back with the Force, just far enough for her to aim a quick hit at the hilt of his saber. He moves out of her reach just in time, whirling aside, the blade of his lightsaber tearing through a nearby tree trunk, scattering sparks in its path.

 

The rain is falling in earnest now, making their saber blades crackle and hiss even they aren't clashing together. The sky above them is black as night, illuminated solely by persistent flashes of lightning. Thunder crashes and rolls and the ground turns to a thick slog of mud beneath their feet and it doesn't matter, nothing matters but the kiss of their blades, the play of red and blue light. The crashing together, the pulling apart. He finds himself testing her knowledge, switching between different forms to see if she can match him, and she does so every time, however clumsily. Each time he makes a move, she mirrors it back at him. While they're locked in combat like this, he can almost let himself forget _why_. It almost feels like this isn't a battle. It's just a lesson.

 

At one point, after he knocks her back particularly hard, Rey slips in the mud. Panic flashes in her eyes as she starts to fall. Without missing a beat, Ben grabs her arm and pulls her back to her feet, back into the fight. Her startled expression right before she launches herself against him once again is exceptionally gratifying.

 

The fight goes on, and on, and _on_ , but not once does either of them land a blow on the other. He isn't trying to hurt her, but he doesn't know what her excuse is. He's given her plenty of openings; turned his back on her, left his side unguarded; he's being the most reckless and sloppy that his pride will allow, and she still just keeps _blocking_ him, _dodging_ him, dancing away from him instead of taking advantage of his obvious weaknesses. At first he blames this on her inexperience; she's barely trained and he's the only one she's ever fought for real. But she's skilled, she's fierce, she hates him … surely she should have managed to land a blow on him by now. She's just not doing the damage he knows that she's capable of, and that confuses and infuriates him. When she goes for him again, a look of grim determination on her face, and makes a valiant effort to get her blade under his, to twist the saber from his grasp, he realizes ...

 

… _she's fighting to_ disarm _me._

 

It's the same thing he tried with her on Starkiller, and the only reason he didn't pick up on it before is because of how utterly improbable it is. This girl has been trying to kill him since the first time she ever saw him; it's unthinkable, after everything that's passed between them, that she would try to spare him now. Unless …

 

… _she's under orders from the Resistance. She's going to take me prisoner, drag me to them, throw me at my mother's feet and have them sentence me to death._ Fear rattles him, the first real fear he's felt since the fight began. He won't let her do this. One of the main reasons he asked her here was so that he wouldn't have to face his mother. He can't let her see him like that, on his knees, in chains, he can't look into her eyes as she watches him die …

 

He has no choice but to give Rey no choice. He can't let her take him alive, so he will bring out the darkness inside of her, keep beating her down until fear takes over and anger consumes her.

 

"How's your friend?" he asks her, his lip curling unpleasantly as he whirls his blade, taunting her. The wind is rushing harder now, whipping their clothes and their hair, and he has to shout to be heard. This makes his ugly words sound even uglier. "The traitor?"

 

Her rage is so strong it slams into him. "Don't you dare talk about Finn," she yells back. Their sabers clash once and then they spin apart, circling one another. Both of them predators, both of them prey.

 

"Oh, he has a name now? How adorable," he sneers, the low hum of the sabers mingling with the wind and the rain in the background.

 

“Shut up,” she tells him, the red light of his saber blade reflecting in her eyes.

 

"You're never going to see him again, you know,” he says by reply. His voice is hollow and brittle, his smile false and sharp. “Once I take you before my master, you'll never see any of your friends again. Unless you meet in battle, as enemies. Maybe that will be a good test for you, once you've had a little more training … to have you kill FN-2187.”

 

This time, when the wave of Rey's anger crashes through the Force, it is dark and crushing. He doesn't even have time to take satisfaction in striking a nerve before Rey's free hand is raised, outstretched, a clenching fist. Bright lights flare behind Ben's eyes as he chokes, struggling for breath. His grip on his saber hilt starts to loosen and slide as he doubles over, helpless for lack of air it hurts and the rain is so cold and the fear is so much stronger than he thought it would be and why is there no peace he thought there would be peace so this is how it feels to die …

 

... and then the pressure is suddenly gone. He gasps, the humid air flooding his lungs, the cold rain reviving him as it streams down his face. His hand flies up to his aching throat, and his eyes meet Rey's and find her frozen, staring at her own hand in horrified fascination, as if she can't even believe what she just did, what she's capable of.

 

He starts laughing, a sound as wild as the wind. It's painful, rattling up from his winded chest and damaged throat, but he can't stop himself. Rey looks at him like he's crazy, which might well be the case.

 

"Did my uncle teach you that?" he asks her, his voice raw.

 

Rey's jaw sets, and her eyes narrow. However much she fears the power of the darkness, she hates him enough to wield it. And she hates him for making her want to wield it. "Of course not," she hisses. " _You_ did. I saw it in your mind.”

 

Through the strange combination of battle-lust and black amusement and despair, he feels something sweet and sharp: a flicker of longing, of regret. Because of him, her first taste of the Force was of the Dark side, and because of him, she will never be able to forget that. If only things had been different. If only he hadn't made such a mess of everything …

 

... but he did. It's too late. It has been too late for him for a long time now. And it might be too late for her, too.

 

"You like hurting me, don't you?" he asks her, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the rain. Shouting hurts too. It's falling down harder than ever now, soaking through the thick layers of his black clothes, sticking them to his skin, plastering his hair to his face. "You know you shouldn't, but you want to cause me pain. Watching me suffer makes you feel powerful ..."

 

" _Stop it_!" she shouts back at him, her voice almost breaking. "Just _stop_ it!"

 

He tilts his head, smiling cruelly. Rey's clothes are stuck to her, her shoulders shaking, whether with anger or fear or because she's feeling the cold chill of the rain. He ignores the idiotic urge to call this whole thing off, to fold at the sight of her suffering. “Make me.”

 

She rushes at him, flinging her whole self into a wild strike that he barely dodges. _Why did I dodge it?_ He'd done it automatically, without a thought in his head. He can feel the heat of her lightsaber inches away from his face, and he raises his own just in time to block it. They push against each other, evenly matched, _equals._ They're locked in combat once again, neither ceding any ground to the other, tethered together by fate and fury and he can feel the end, so close. He's about to die and he can't remember the last time he felt so alive. This is too close of a contest; he has to give her an edge, a reason to destroy him. To strike him down.

 

"This feels familiar," he hears himself saying, and they're so close together he barely has to raise his voice to be heard, despite the hissing of their locked saber blades, the howl of wind and pouring rain. Wind whips their hair around both their faces and her luminous eyes fix on his, unblinking. "Do you think about Starkiller often? Do you have nightmares, Rey?"

 

Something stirs in her eyes. She bares her teeth, and a chill runs through him. "Do you have nightmares … Ben?"

 

Wind smacks at his face, making his eyes sting and water. "That day," he whispers, and she leans forward to hear him better. "On the bridge. I was glad that you were there. I was _glad_ that you were watching. I wanted you to hurt like I hurt. I wanted you to know what it felt like to know ... to know that you couldn't count on Han Solo to protect you." He grits his teeth, the awful words and the ragged edge of truth of them making him bleed inside. "I wanted you to lose him too, I wanted to take him away from you ..."

 

"Shut up," Rey breaks in, a sob lost in the back of her voice. "Just shut _up_." He can feel her leaning into him, pushing him back inexorably. She will have the upper hand in a few moments. His heart hammers with anticipation, awaiting the kiss of her blade.

 

"He was _my_ father," he reminds her, and feels tears mingling with the rain on his face, can hear them muddying and thickening his voice. "Not yours. He couldn't save me. He couldn't save you. And now, no one can save either of us."

 

She hauls off and punches him.

 

The movement was so fast, he didn't anticipate it; one of her hands releasing her lightsaber hilt in order to form into a fist and slam into his mouth. The impact rattles Ben's teeth and he stumbles backward, nearly losing his grip on his own saber. His mouth fills with the taste of blood: his own and hers. His lower lip is split and her knuckles were scraped on his teeth; Rey winces in pain, shakes it off, comes for him again. She kicks out and catches him in the ribs, and he grunts, pain shooting through his side and he falls back further, the wind knocked out of him, but rallies fast enough to spit out a mouthful of blood … and block her next strike.

 

A terrible weight is growing in his chest, almost seeming to take up physical space, making his breath come hard and fast and ragged. In the swirling, seething, red and black tangle of his mind, one thought, one doubt, has begun to chase itself round and round, distracting him, weakening him: _will it really end with me?_

 

He told himself that his death would begin to heal the galaxy. That it was all he had to offer. He told himself whatever he had to in order to get himself here, to this spot, to this final contest, so that he could fail. So that he could fall.

 

And now that he's here, in the moment, he keeps pulling himself back up whenever his chosen opponent, the self-selected instrument of his destruction, has a chance to knock him down. All he can think about is that here is another piece of the mess he's made. Rey didn't even know she could use the Force until after he used it on her. And she tapped into the Dark side while trying to fight him. He made that necessary. That was his fault. And now she has to live with knowing what she's capable of.

 

If she kills him now, she will have to live with that too. And even though his death would be perfectly justified, even though the galaxy would sing her praises for putting him down ... this girl is _good_. Darkness or no darkness, she is good in a way he is not anymore, and maybe never was. And Snoke wants her. Snoke wants the whole galaxy in the palm of his hand and if Kylo Ren is dead and Rey is still alive, she will perhaps not seem so expendable anymore. Snoke wants to devour the universe and he will use this girl to deliver it to him. Luke Skywalker won't be able to protect her. There's only one person who knows what Snoke is truly capable of. Only Kylo Ren. Only Ben Solo.

 

Their blades clash another time, the force of the blow singing through his broad frame; he can only imagine how Rey is still upright. Both of them are exhausted, their clothes stuck to them with rain and sweat and mud, both of them gasping, both of them seeking an end ...

 

... but what end is he seeking?

 

His body is going through all the motions of his fighting with her, while his head and his heart wage a separate war inside of him. He had sought peace, wholeness, an end to the struggle that has defined his worthless blood-stained wreck of a life. Instead, once more, he finds himself being torn apart.

 

_this is quite a mess you've made Ben_

 

_will you really do to her what has been done to you_

 

_can you really abandon all of them_

 

_how can you be so awful_

 

_could you really be so cruel_

 

_there is still much light in you_

 

_everything will be all right if you just trust me_

 

_you could set the world on fire with it_

 

_finish what I started Ben_

 

_weak is the last thing you are_

 

_there's a storm coming_

 

_you will need allies_

 

_i don't want to have to do this by myself_

 

_come home, we miss you_

 

_i don't wanna die_

 

_wake up let's go home wake up let's go home_

 

_you have a choice now Ben you have a choice now Ben you have a choice now Ben_

 

_I HAVE A CHOICE I HAVE A **CHOICE**_

 

He doesn't think. He acts. Flooded with a new energy, he blocks Rey's next blow with ease and uses his superior physical strength to shove her back, putting some distance between them; he sees anger and frustration flash like lightning across her face, and the rain running down her cheeks almost looks like tears. She looks so tired. She looks as tired as he feels. Breathing hard, Rey grips her lightsaber, bracing herself to run at him again ...

 

" _ **Wait**_!" Ben yells, pain singing though his split lip, his voice louder than the wind and thunder.

 

Rey freezes, stares at him, completely shocked. And, to tell the truth ... so is he.

 

The red lightsaber is still singing and hissing in his hand. It's too loud for him to hear himself think, and he turns it off, and throws the hilt to the ground, not even stopping to watch where it lands. He closes the distance between himself and Rey in two quick, aggressive strides. Rey recoils slightly, a flicker of alarm leaping into her eyes, but she makes no move to use her weapon.

 

Ben stops directly in front of her and hits the ground on his knees.

 

Raising his face to hers, feeling the rain rolling down his cheeks and nose, Ben sees Rey looking down at him with perfect shock on her features. "What ... what are you doing?" she asks him, breathless.

 

"I don't know," he admits, his voice and his body both trembling. There was nothing in his plan about this. Once again he's been seized by an impulse and proven powerless to ignore it, unable to resist. On some level, he's aware that he's probably making a terrible mistake.

 

But it's his mistake to make.

 

There's silence between them for long moments, where all she can seem to do is stare down at him and all he can seem to do is stare up at her and the only sound is the swirl of the wind and the rain, followed a single clap of thunder.

 

"Are you ... surrendering to me?" Rey asks him.

 

Ben hates that word, surrender. His pride rebels against it. His heart rebels against it. And his soul protests the notion that surrender is even possible between the two of them, when …

 

"I'm not at war with you," he tells her. "I never was."

 

Rey blinks, collects herself, and her face hardens again. The blue saber is still and glowing in her hand, a humming threat. "If you think I'd ever be your stupid apprentice, even if you beg me on your knees, then you're sadly mist- ..."

 

He shakes his head, raindrops flying from the ends of his hair. "We were never meant to be enemies.” He has known this for a while now, but he didn't understand what it meant.

 

He thinks just maybe he understands now.

 

Now she just looks uncomfortable, her fierce expression faltering. "I don't ... we aren't ..."

 

"I had a dream last night," Ben blurts, feeling stupid, but knowing it's the key to making her understand.

 

Her eyes widen and something flickers in them. “L-last night? What … what kind of dream?”

 

"You were there," he tells her, watching the look on her face, sensing her fear. "We were ..." He searches for a word to fill the space. "... helping each other," he says finally, keeping her gaze. "Holding on to each other, because if we didn't ..."

 

" ... we'd both be lost," Rey finishes, in a whisper so faint that he almost doesn't hear her, and could almost believe he's imagined it. But the look in her eyes ... the fearful recognition ... she isn't making a guess. She _knows._

 

"You … we ..." He can hardly dare to believe it. _We had the same dream?_ "So ... that's why you were trying to disarm me," he thinks aloud.  "Because of the dream." 

 

She closes her eyes for a second, opens them again.  "Among other reasons," she tells him vaguely.  He wants to ask her what those reasons are, exactly, but he's frozen, waiting.  

 

Around the two of them, the rain is still falling, but the wind has died down, the lightning and the thunder have moved on.  

 

"There's a storm coming," Rey says quietly, her gaze fixed on his and yet somehow far away, back in the dream they had shared. "That's what he said ... your grandfather. He was warning us, wasn't he?"

 

Ben nods. "I think so." His heart was already beating hard, but that word - _us_ \- makes it fall even harder, like a hammer in his chest. When was the last time he was part of an _us_? The dream surges through his mind again, and unlike most dreams, it hasn't blurred around the edges over the course of the day. Every detail is scored upon his mind. And, it must follow, upon hers as well.

 

He speaks the words that, in the dream, belonged to her. "I don't want to have to do this alone," he breathes.

 

Rey draws in her breath sharply, and doesn't let it out for several seconds. Her saber has died in her hand and she doesn't even seem to notice. "Well, what do you want _me_ to do?" She says finally, sounding as angry and uncertain and scared as he's ever felt. And every bit as lost.

 

Tears struggle at Ben's eyelashes, sudden and unexpected. He'd imagined begging her to kill him, but he'd never imagined this.

 

"Help me, Rey," he murmurs. "You're my only hope."

 

Rey's mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. There's so much in her brown eyes, and so much in the Force between them. And all of it aches.

 

"Please _._ Give me one chance," he asks her, his voice cracking.

 

"You had a chance," Rey says, grim and tragic. "On Starkiller Base, you had a chance."

 

She's right. How audacious of him, how boldly perverse, to ask her to help him when he showed her all too clearly how dangerous that is. This girl stood and watched as Ben Solo was offered forgiveness and love, and she saw him murder it.

 

Except he hadn't succeeded. Because even though Han Solo is dead, his love for his son is still alive.

 

_And if he loves me, then ... there must be something in me that's still capable of doing something good. Something in me that's worthy of another chance. Just one more. I promise I'll get it right this time, I swear I will ... but I can't do it alone. I was never_ meant _to do it alone._

 

With difficulty, Ben raises his eyes to Rey's once again, seeing her startle at the sight of his tears.

 

"I don't want to be a … a monster anymore," he confides in her, in a shaky whisper. He's absolutely terrified that she will tell him what he's so long believed, what part of him can't stop believing: that he will always be that person. That broken, worthless, lost and frightened child who was turned into a weapon. He never felt like a monster until she named him one.

 

"What do you want, then?" Rey asks him, and even though her voice is stern, there's something there, something he feels rather than hears. An unexpected gentleness. “What do you _really_ want?”

 

Saying it tears pieces out of him, but he's lighter without those pieces. "I want to go _home_."

 

Rey obviously knows that he's not just asking for a ride. She seems to struggle with herself for a several long, painful moments, words coming to her lips only to fall back, frustration and sadness and anger mingled on her expressive face.

 

"I'm not stupid," she says at last. “Maybe I haven't been at this as long as you have, but I know how the Force works. I know the fact that we both had the same dream matters. But ... after what you've done, after everything … ” Rey pauses, looks away and then back at him, tears glimmering along the sweep of her lashes. “How can I trust you?”

 

She makes a very good point. He wouldn't trust himself, in fact he doesn't trust himself. He came here to die and changed his mind; clearly there's something very wrong with him. Looking up at her, feeling his hope begin to tremble and flicker and fade, he scrambles around in his mind for a way he could convince her, something he could give ...

 

... his mind. Of course. He knows now what he has to do and he wants to physically recoil from the idea, so much does it frighten him. He who has been taught to abhor weakness is going to have to reveal his weakest moments. He who has been told to reject any form of intimacy is about to invite this girl into his very heart and soul. He who has been haunted will have to show her all his ghosts. He will have to let her take whatever she wants from him, and he can only hope that it's enough.

 

Ben swallows hard, blinking tears and raindrops from his lashes. Gloved fingers trembling, he tentatively reaches for her hand.

 

She flinches away, of course, pulling her hand to her side and clenching it in a fist. She looks down at him fearfully for a moment, but before he can come up with any words to convince her, she relaxes, and her fingers uncurl and loosen.

 

Rey holds her hand out, palm up, and Ben takes it in his and guides her palm towards the side of his face. She hesitates, uncertain, her hand close enough to his cheek that he can feel the warmth of her skin, but still not quite touching. Her eyes fix on his, a question in their depths, and Ben nods in answer to it.

 

He says, “Look.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AYYYYYYYYOOOOOO Ben's still alive! And so am I. Sorry for pulling a Luke and disappearing there for a while; life has been a bit of a mess lately. In a good way, but still. I'm so happy to finally be posting this chapter (bc tbh I felt super guilty leaving everyone thinking this boy was going to die) and I'm HOPING (may the Force be with me) to have the next one up in a week. As usual, all of your comments and feedback make me ridiculously happy <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don't be afraid."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a long chapter because i have no self control and i love pain and suffering. enjoy!

For a moment, looking is all she does … not into his mind, but into his eyes. Whatever she sees there, she must believe it, because her consternation settles into something softer, something it takes time for him to recognize … concern.

 

“Are you … are you sure?” she asks him softly.

 

Ben doesn't hesitate. If he hesitates, his terror and his doubt will strangle him. “It's the only way.”

 

Slowly, Rey nods. “All right, then,” she says, more to herself than to himself. “All right.”

 

Not ungently, she tugs her hand free from his – grimacing ever so slightly as his gloved fingers brush her bleeding knuckles, bearing the marks of his teeth – and seems to brace herself, collecting herself with a short, sharp breath. Then Rey tucks the hilt of her lightsaber back in her belt, and kneels down in the mud in front of him. He's slumped over, and her back is ramrod straight, but that's the only way they'd be at eye level.

 

Rey raises her right hand, holding it up before Ben's face, her fingers shaking slightly, her brow furrowing and her nose crinkling in concentration. There's a stirring in the Force between them, a weak but slightly disorienting push at Ben's consciousness, and old, ugly memories of his own training rise up to taunt him. Snoke had made him hone his mind-probing skills on stormtroopers who were suspected of needing reconditioning, whose loyalty to the First Order was in question. That was where Kylo Ren learned to hate traitors, despising their divided hearts and doubt-filled minds that so reminded him of his own. The day that he finally grew strong enough to read them without making physical contact with them, he was almost sick with gratitude.

 

"Touching helps," he mutters, casting his eyes down, "if you're new to it."

 

Her frown deepens, and he sees a slight quiver of resentment. She doesn't want to touch him. The thought of touching him frightens and almost repels her. But he also senses that she's going to do it anyway.

 

Even though he asked her to, he still flinches, shies away from her when she reaches out. His whole body feels like it's turning red with humiliation at this obvious show of weakness, but it has a curious effect on Rey, who simply waits for him to return, her fingers held out towards him in a peaceful gesture. Still cautious, still wary, Ben looks into her eyes and finds that she looks patient … compassionate. It's been a long time since a living person looked at him that way and for a second he doesn't quite trust it but then Ben notices the engine grease beneath Rey's fingernails, and it reminds him of his father, and this small detail brings him back to reality. He steels himself, leans forward, and lets Rey touch him.

 

The sensation of another person's skin on his is actually overwhelming; he's afraid he might faint or throw up or cry or all three. Rey's fingers, rough and calloused but still gentle, bump clumsily against Ben's nose and cheek before settling against the rough edges of the scar she gave him. He is scarcely moving; he is not even breathing.

 

"Don't be afraid," whispers Rey.

 

And suddenly, irresistibly, he's not. The breath he's been holding back spills through his lips in a sigh, and his whole body relaxes. This sense of calm and rightness can't be of his own making; he's too much of a mess to pull himself together at this point. It's the Force - flowing between them, around them, through them - that's making him calm.

 

Ben leans into Rey's touch, not realizing he's done it until it's too late to pull back. It doesn't seem to bother her, though. If anything, it seems to strengthen her: the power, her focus. Ben, aided by his own preternatural calm, focuses on her. It's fascinating to watch her use the Force, like she's opening a door and finding something new and wonderful behind it, just when she thought she'd already seen it all.

 

Rey's eyes flutter shut, her frown of concentration smooths out, and there's a shove, a shattering, and she's inside Ben's mind.

 

Even though he has invited her, it still hurts. She's a guest, not a trespasser, but he's not a very gracious host. To be laid bare, stared into, moved through like this ... the vulnerability of it is horrifying. It's worse than being without a mask; it's worse than being without clothing. He's a skinned animal, bleeding in her hands … and she is not even doing what he himself has done so many times, to so many prisoners over the years. She's not tearing through the contents of his mind with abandon, with no regard for the damage she might leave in her wake. Rey is being as thorough and delicate as she knows how to be … as thorough and delicate as only a scavenger _can_ be … and it still leaves Ben in agony. There is nothing left to protect him from her at all: no shield and no weapon, no pretense and no bravado. Everything that makes him who he is, she has access to, and he can't make her see anything but the truth … and if she still hates him when it's over, he will no longer be able to comfort himself with the idea that she just doesn't really know him. She will be the only person in the whole galaxy who really, truly knows him. And she could so easily throw him away.

 

She wouldn't be the first.

 

“Who?” she asks quietly, her golden-brown eyes opening and fixing on his, her expression intent, determined. “Who threw you away?”

 

Part of him is still trying to hide things from her, but she doesn't allow it. Compassion has its own kind of ruthlessness, and in a second the images are there, hers for the taking.

 

He's ten, almost eleven. There are flowers wilting in a cup on the table in the kitchen; he picked them for his mother days ago, as a sort of apology for his latest mistake, but she never seemed to notice them. She's been so distracted lately, more so than usual: quiet and angry and sad by turns. Even when Dad comes back, she's not happy. Ben knows that something's wrong with both of them and that it more than likely has to do with him, but by now, he has given up asking for answers. All he ever gets back anymore are empty promises and lies.

 

He spends a lot of time inside of his own head these days. The voice is the only one who tells him the truth anymore. The voice has been growing louder, stronger over the years, and more forthcoming. He tells Ben things, things about the past that his parents won't speak of. He listens to Ben when there is no one else around to listen, as happens more and more often now. And he teaches Ben, in small and subtle fashions, the ways of the Force: things his uncle is afraid of, things his mother has never bothered to learn.

 

It's the things his inner friend have been teaching him that end up getting him in trouble, that end up getting him sent away. Which of course, he realizes now, must have been Snoke's intention all along. Snoke got Ben Solo right where he wanted him: standing in a clearing on Yavin 4 with his small world crumbling around him.

 

Chewie hates goodbyes. He had hugged Ben once, tightly, before lumbering back to the Falcon. But his mom and dad lingered, talking to his uncle in muffled voices before the three of them turned to Ben and tried to make him understand why this was happening, why they were doing this … and he does understand.

 

The voice had told him that this would happen. That there would come a day when his parents would no longer find him worth the trouble, would no longer want him around. Ben just hadn't wanted to believe it.

 

He just hadn't thought that it would come so soon.

 

His dad is ruffling his hair now, hugging him briefly, giving his shoulders a squeeze before stepping back. His hazel eyes are clouded and his voice is deeper than usual, rougher. “Try not to give your Uncle Luke too much trouble, kid.”

 

“He'll be fine,” Uncle Luke says. The calm of his voice doesn't even penetrate the storm of Ben's emotions, because he can feel what his father is feeling and even though Han Solo is sad, there's a small part of him that's … relieved. That will feel so much better not to have to deal with Ben anymore.

 

His mom folds him in her arms. Her eyes are dry, but she's crying on the inside. Ben can feel the _drip drip drip_ of her tears and the _twist pull tear thud_ of her heart. Ben does not hug her back. He can't move, can barely even think. She presses a kiss to his cheek and whispers in his ear. “Be brave, Ben. I love you.”

 

He doesn't answer. When she stands up and steps back from him, all he can do is stare at her. He's as tall as she is, but she makes him feel so small. So powerless.

 

All he can do now is watch the two people who are his whole world turn their backs and walk away from him. All he can do is look up at the sky as the Falcon takes off. Watching, and _feeling,_ his mom and dad and Chewie fly away from him. Stare at the streak in the sky as the Falcon enters hyperspace. _Without me._ There are hot tears on his face and he doesn't even know how they got there, he doesn't even remember starting to cry, and his hands are in shaking fists at his sides and a wind is rising somewhere in the distance, shaking the trees. Uncle Luke is standing right beside him, his hand on Ben's shoulder, strong and steady and kind. He's right there, but Ben has never felt so completely, so utterly alone.

 

_They left me they left me_ _**they left me** _ _why would they do that why would they leave me? They won't do it they won't really do it they'll come back and they'll tell me they made a mistake and they'll take me home. They'll come back they'll come back_ _**I know they'll come back for me** _ _and bring me home_ _**I know** _ _…_

 

“But they didn't,” Rey breathes, and his pain has become hers; their eyes are glittering mirrors. “They didn't bring you home.”

 

He shakes his head, and a tear falls from his lashes, dripping onto Rey's fingers. She sets this piece of his history back as carefully as she found it, and moves on.

 

Not long after he arrived on Yavin to train with his uncle, his grandfather had appeared to him in a dream. He can't remember it clearly now: what has stayed with him is that sense of power, the security of Anakin Skywalker's presence, how it made him long for more, to never let that feeling of safety go. What stayed with him were the words, half-command, half-plea: _finish it, Ben, finish what I started_ and what comes back to haunt him now is how easily he was swayed, how he allowed the voice, over time, to convince him that what his grandfather wanted was more death and more destruction and more war.

 

 **If you are to become Darth Vader's equal in power,** the voice told him, **there will have to be sacrifices.**

 

 _I know,_ Ben had said.

 

“But you didn't know,” Rey says, speaking his thoughts aloud. “You didn't know what he meant. What you were agreeing to. You didn't know anything at all.”

 

He tries so hard to fit in at the academy at first, and then he stops trying. He throws himself into his training, hurls himself into it, devoting himself completely to practicing, meditating, dueling. Most days are bad and most nights are worse but one day, levitating rocks alone in a field, Ben feels something through the Force. An approach.

 

"Dad," he whispers, and all the rocks crash to the ground around him and he's on his feet in seconds, running to the spot where he knows, he just knows, that the Falcon will be landing.

 

He's so eager that he actually beats it there, and stands and watches the ship descend, stirring up dust and grass, and he can hardly stand still, he's bouncing up and down, hardly able to contain himself. It's been ... has it really been a year? A year since they left him here, a year since he saw his father and mother? Mom at least sends frequent holos; Dad is harder to reach because he doesn't tend to stay in one place. But he's here now. He's here and that's all that matters.

 

Ben wants to be stoic, he wants to be grown up, he's nearly twelve now, after all, and he's been through a year of Jedi training and he ought to have some dignity. He _tries_ to have some dignity. But the second he sees Han Solo striding down the ramp towards him, he forgets all about that. He's sprinting, meeting his father halfway up the ramp, Han Solo laughing until Ben crashes into him with all his weight.

 

"Damn, kid," his father wheezes, wrapping his arms around Ben to steady him. Ben's already clinging to him, feeling the worn-out nerf leather of the jacket beneath his fingertips, breathing in the familiar scent of engine grease and soap. "Look at you! You're getting as big as a Wookiee! What's that farmboy uncle of yours feeding you, huh?"

 

Ben's smiling so much his face hurts. It doesn't even occur to him until then that he can't remember the last time he really, truly smiled. Reluctantly he releases his father and steps back, only to find himself pulled into a hug again, and he would be content to stay there forever, his dad's strong arms around his shoulders, his head resting on his dad's chest. For a moment, he can hear his father's heartbeat.

 

"I missed you, Dad," Ben says, before he can stop himself, before he can remember that it shouldn't be important, that the voice would tell him it doesn't matter. Because it _does_ matter. And maybe ... his heart picks up speed, rises like a bird in his chest ... maybe if he's good, he will get to go home.

 

Han Solo's arms tighten around his son. His voice, when he speaks, is thick with emotion.

 

"I missed you too, Ben," his dad tells him, bending down - he doesn't have to bend very far - to kiss the top of his head. "You have no idea how much."

 

Ben thinks he does have some idea. Pretending to resent being kissed, he pulls away and makes a face at his dad, who returns an even goofier version of the same face. Han Solo slings an arm around Ben's shoulder and he messes up his already messy hair and they head off together, going for a walk so Ben can show his dad all his favorite places. He knows Dad will want to see Uncle Luke but he wants his father to himself for now.

 

"How's Mom?" Ben pipes up finally, during a lull in conversation. He last talked to her a week ago and she had seemed sad, although she didn't say why. She never says why. Ben has learned to stop asking.

 

There's alarm in his father's eyes, followed almost immediately by sadness. Fear slices through Ben, cold and sharp.

 

"She's good, she's fine," Han Solo says, too quickly. "Hey, kid, how about you show me some of those fancy lightsaber tricks you've been learning?"

 

Ben just stares up at his dad. Unblinking. Frozen. Something's wrong.

 

The forced joviality on his dad's face flickers and fades. Han Solo is more than uncomfortable. _He knows I know he's lying,_ Ben realizes. _He's afraid. Afraid of me. Of what I can do._ The joy he'd felt at his father's presence curdles and sours and his stomach is tied in knots, his hands forming into fists. He'd forgotten. He'd been so stupid to forget the reasons he'd been dumped here in the first place. Like that look his dad would get when Ben would use the Force, the sense of unease that would pass from his mind to his son's. The look he's wearing right now. _He'd like me better if I was weak and powerless … like_ _ **him**_ _._ It's a mean, disloyal thought, but why should he be loyal to a father who lies to him?

 

"What aren't you telling me, Dad?" he asks, quietly, accusingly. He's surprised by the steadiness of his own voice.

 

"Nothing, kid," his father says, the corner of his mouth hitching up in a weak approximation of his usual crooked smile. "Everything's fine."

 

Fury swells in him. "You're a liar," Ben snaps.

 

The stinging hurt that dampens his father's eyes is replaced by bitter resignation. Han Solo seems to become fragile in that moment, weakened. The gray flecks in his hair, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes; why has Ben never noticed them before? "Okay, kid. Okay. You got me. I haven't seen your mom in a ... in a while, now."

 

Ben's heart is battering at him like a stone being thrown repeatedly. "Why … why not?"

 

His father stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks at the ground, nudging a small stone with the toe of his boot. "It's just that I haven't really ... haven't really been home much.” His father looks up, dark clouds in his eyes. “Aw, dammit. I can't lie to you, kid … your mom I haven't exactly been living together ..."

 

"For how long?" Ben cuts in, his voice hardly more than a whisper. "For how long, Dad?"

 

There's a lengthy, awful silence before his father speaks again. "I guess about ... about a year now."

 

This is followed by a sudden, terrible moment of clarity when without even trying, Ben can see straight into his father's mind. Han Solo knows exactly the day and the moment when home was no longer home, the last time he saw Leia face to face. It was the day they got back from leaving Ben here.

 

The day they stopped being a family.

 

_Because of me. It's because of me. It's all my fault._

 

Rey is shaking her head, squeezing her eyes shut. “No …” she starts to say, and it's impossible to tell if she's talking to him or to herself.

 

But the memory draws them both back in and Ben is staring up at his father, his heart aching, his eyes swimming.

 

“Kid, hey ...” Han Solo says, forcing a crooked smile. “Listen, it's okay ...”

 

“How could you?” Ben hears himself saying. His voice is twisted with fury and suppressed tears. "How could you leave her?" _How could you leave me,_ he wants to ask, but he already knows. The voice had told him years ago that his parents' love for him would fade. But their love for each other? Why did that have to go away too?

 

_Because of me. I did this. I ruined everything. They'll never bring me home now ... I don't have a home anymore._ _**They** _ _don't have a home anymore._

 

Ben just stands there. He feels like he's been turned to stone but not really because stone can't hurt. The grief that's building up in him is too deep to be expressed in tears, but it must be obvious on his face, because his father's face crumples in response to it.

 

"Ben ..." his father says softly, reaching for him.

 

" _Don't_ ," Ben snarls, breaking out of his stupor to smack his father's hand away. He's so angry that a tree a few meters away from them cracks in half and falls over with a resounding crash, and his father jumps, shocked. "Don't touch me! Don't ever touch me again!"

 

And, until the day he dies, Han Solo doesn't.

 

There's more for Rey to see. Most of it ugly. It isn't all linear, isn't all clear. It's a mess, in fact, a dark and tangled mess and he doesn't know how anyone could hope to make sense out of it, to unravel it, but she does. Mostly she sifts through the contents of his mind, but sometimes she picks up something and stares at it longer than the rest.

 

She finds him after the massacre, after he destroys everything, after he's Kylo Ren. He can't sleep. He hasn't been able to sleep for days. The screams of the other kids are still playing on a loop in his mind; no matter what he does, he can't make them shut up. Even meditation isn't working; in fact, the screams just get louder and worse when he's in solitude and silence. It doesn't take him away from that moment; it keeps him bringing him back to it instead, making him live through the slaughter over and over. Supreme Leader keeps praising him, telling him what an accomplishment it was to destroy the Jedi, what a great victory … then why doesn't it feel like a victory? Why does he feel no joy and no pride; why does he feel nothing but emptiness? Supreme Leader is proud of him; why can't he be proud of himself? He has to make this stop, he has to take shelter in the darkness because the light has never made him strong …

 

The other Knights of Ren find him later, holding the humming red blade of his lightsaber an inch from his own skin, systematically, superficially burning his arms and legs with it. He has realized what Supreme Leader says is true, about how pain can be a gift; how it can bring out the darkness in him, and there's something else: that the screaming of his skin can drown out the screaming in his mind. Vekko Ren makes a noise of disgust, throwing the boy he's supposed to call master over his shoulder and dragging him to a bacta tank and tossing him in. Kylo Ren doesn't struggle or protest even when his burned skin does.

 

He learns to raise his head at the sound of his new name. He learns to hide his childish face and wavering eyes behind a mask, to hide every inch of his skin. He takes more lives than he can count but somehow he can never seem to really escape the feeling of Jax's hands clinging and loosening, the sound of his body hitting the ground. Sometimes when he hurts himself, Kylo Ren swears that he can hear General Organa crying. Sometimes when he passes the mirror in his quarters, he catches a glimpse of Han Solo's profile in his own. Sometimes he can still hear Luke Skywalker asking him why.

 

He is still asking himself why, a lot of the time.

 

More often than not in the early years of his apprenticeship, Kylo Ren cries himself to sleep. No matter what he does, the pain is always with him. Always waiting. He can keep it at bay when he's training, when he's fighting, when Supreme Leader is teaching him the harshest and most important lessons. But it always comes back. It has not dulled over the years, but sharpened instead, becoming a knife that twists inside his heart. By the time he's twenty years old, Kylo Ren thinks, surely he has used up the last of his tears. Surely he has cried and cut and burned and bruised the last of Ben Solo out of himself.

 

But behind a locked door in the very back of his mind, a boy named Ben curls up crying every day, every night. And when he's in pain, and when he's in trouble, he longs for a pair of arms around him, for a comforting word. For a single gentle touch.

 

But even if he could admit that desire aloud, there's no one to touch him. And he can't admit it even to himself. This is the life he chose for himself. Love is fragile and foolish, love will fade like the stars, that's what Supreme Leader says and Supreme Leader is always right. Love is sentiment and sentiment is weakness and Kylo Ren cannot be weak, not even for a moment, not even for a second, not even in his own mind because his mind is not a private place, his mind belongs to Supreme Leader Snoke along with all the rest of him and if he can't be strong he will never be free, he will never be powerful, he will never be worthy and everything he's done everything that haunts him will have been for nothing ...

 

Some days, some nights, Kylo Ren can't even breathe. He tells himself over and over again that Ben Solo is dead. But some days, some nights, it feels like Kylo Ren is the dead one, the impostor, an empty body performing empty motions at the behest of a will not his own.

 

He never learns how to be free of his own pain, his own inherent weakness. The light that will not let him rest, will not stop calling the name he gave up all those years ago. Can't stop the crying boy in the back of his mind from raising his stinging eyes and opening his big stupid mouth trying to answer that call. Kylo Ren shuts him up, for both their sakes. If he can't find a way to make it stop, Supreme Leader is going to get rid of him. He knows that. Deep down, he's known it for years; it's what keeps him striving and pushing for his master's approval, willing to do anything to gain a word of praise. He can't be thrown away again, and he can't give up now; he has to finish what Darth Vader started, bring balance to the Force, bring order to a galaxy in conflict and chaos. And if he is to have any chance of doing that, then he _has_ to kill the light. He has to kill Ben Solo, once and for all.

 

Finally he gets his chance.

 

He's been faltering lately. This in itself is nothing new ... he has never been truly certain of his path, has never known the feeling of sureness. But it's worse now. He's so tired, so empty. Everything he does is hollow, pointless. He doesn't know if the pull of the light is getting stronger or if he's just getting even weaker, but whatever the case, Supreme Leader won't let this go unchallenged much longer. Soon he will teach Kylo Ren another agonizing lesson, or even worse, cut him loose entirely, write him off a lost cause, a failed attempt, a worthless broken thing, not worth the bother, not worth the effort or the attention. This would be far, far worse than killing him.

 

Kylo Ren's failures are mounting up, piling around him by the day. Supreme Leader wants Luke Skywalker and he wants Kylo Ren to find him and it shouldn't have been so difficult, but the map slips though his fingers and worst of all, it's Kylo Ren's own fault. He had looked straight at FN-2187 in the smoldering wreckage of that cursed village on Jakku. And FN-2187 had looked back at him. Kylo Ren felt the stormtrooper's fear, his doubt, his confusion. His reluctance and his failure to do what had been asked of him, to do his duty to the Order. He knew that FN-2187 was faltering in the same way he has felt himself faltering so many times.

 

He _knew_ all this, and he still let it go. Still gave the stormtrooper another chance. But when the Resistance pilot manages to escape, Kylo Ren knows immediately who helped him, knows immediately who the traitor is, and feels his own failure like a slap in the face. And then the damn traitor makes off with the damn droid. Kylo Ren is responsible. Once again he's failed. So this is where compassion and mercy gets him. He knows it was the Light that prompted him not to cut down FN-2187 at the first flicker of disloyalty, so he's more furious at himself, more divided than ever. He doesn't recall ever being quite so out of control.

 

And just when he believes that things can't possibly get any worse, Supreme Leader tells him that Han Solo is involved. Beneath his mask, Kylo Ren's face crumples and he's filled not with resolve, but with sorrow and fear and an overwhelming longing for someone stronger, someone older, someone better to come and take this choice away from him, to set him free. He knows what Supreme Leader wants him to do and there is not a single part of him that wants to do it. It's his only path forward and he just wants to run away from it. But he says the words that Supreme Leader wants to hear. He says that Han Solo means nothing to him.

 

Of all the lies he's ever told, that's one that he doesn't even believe while he's saying it.

 

But he watches a star system die, he _feels_ it die, and he knows there's no return now. He ought to be able to throw himself into the dark and be swallowed up, not have to keep feeling everything all the time ... it hurts too much and it will never stop hurting if he can't be strong, can't do this one thing Supreme Leader wants of him, if he can't get rid of Han Solo.

 

But he's terrified and confused and more lost than ever and he doesn't _want_ to. So when he finds the girl, sees that the map is somewhere in her mind, and he won't have to face his father after all ... he takes her and gets out of there as fast as he can … all without ever catching a glimpse of Han Solo. Kylo Ren is very pleased with himself when he takes the girl back to Starkiller Base. He can't very well kill Han Solo if he doesn't even see him. He will extract the information from the girl, the map will be in the hands of the First Order, he can find the last Jedi and deliver him to his master and finally then, maybe, Darth Vader's legacy will be appeased. Maybe finally then Kylo Ren can be a master in his own right. Maybe then he can finally feel powerful, can finally be free.

 

Except he can't. Because the girl, the scavenger of no name and no family, knocks him completely off course and sends him spinning helplessly adrift in the shattered fragments of what he thought he knew.

 

He admires her bravery. He respects her strength. He wants her to admire him too. Doesn't stop to analyze why, but then, when has he ever stopped to analyze anything? Damn it, he wants her to _like_ him. It's ridiculous, childish, and stupid, just another sign of his inherent frailty, but when she mocks him for his mask, he removes it.

 

And then, when he sees her mind, he knows her pain, and recognizes it. Ben Solo, recently awakened by the mention of his father's name, raises his head in curiosity to study the girl. _So lonely ... so afraid ... just like me._

 

His stomach cramps and twists with the agony of her constant, inescapable hunger. He feels her lips blister and her skin crack and peel under the oppressive heat of the Jakku sun, winces when the sand scrapes her raw as she crawls home across it one day after being robbed and beaten by some fellow scavengers; she couldn't have been older than eight at the time. He knows the taste of the vomit in her mouth and the cold quake in her heart whenever she's forced to kill to save her own life, how she knows she can't waste her precious water so she scrubs her hands with sand until the only blood left is her own.

 

He feels his shoulders shaking with her sobs, tastes the bitterness of her tears in his own mouth, shivers with the chill of a desert night. He feels her anger, her bitterness at being left behind. The sleepless nights and vivid daydreams to make up for a lack of any true joy in her life, living in the wreckage of the past, not having any real hope of a future. Not anymore. She soothes herself with images of cool blue water and warm green trees and soft brown soil and bright blooming flowers. He feels her longing for a pair of strong arms to close around her, lift her up and carry her away from this place. _She doesn't remember the last time anyone touched her either._

 

He listens to the lies she tells herself, words she stopped believing in but still repeats every day, every night. _They'll come back for me I know they will they love me they didn't mean to leave me for so long they'll come back and get me my family will come to take me home I know they will ..._

 

Her body and her soul are always on the verge of starving, but somehow she always manages to rise like the sun and keep shining with a stubborn light. Ben is moved. Ben is fascinated. Ben is envious. He feels her pain and he knows it. He feels her strength and he covets it.

 

He doesn't _choose_ to feel compassion. It sparks up in his heart and becomes a flame, burning hot and uncomfortable, and shedding light on things he didn't want to examine too closely. It's ridiculous, it's folly to feel kinship with such a sentimental creature, it's ridiculous to feel sorry for someone who in her own way is stronger than he has ever been. But it's too late. When he tries to smother it, it only burns brighter.

 

And then, with a sickening lurch of his stomach, he sees the man who used to be his father ... old, tired, and sad he seems. But that's not what Rey sees. She thinks of Han Solo with a warm glow of admiration, of familial affection. She looks at him and she doesn't see a sad old pirate. Rey looks at Han Solo and sees a hero. And it hurts, it hurts so badly because he can suddenly remember, so clear and sharp, when he looked at Han Solo the exact same way. When he loved him, and felt loved by him. Back when love was something he believed in. Something that mattered, like it matters to her. Back when he was a stupid kid who didn't know the truth.

 

Han Solo is weak and foolish, and Kylo Ren is powerful and strong, but Rey looks at Han Solo with love and looks at Kylo Ren with fear and hatred. How is that fair?

 

He physically and emotionally distances himself from her but it doesn't make any difference, because not only does she hurl him out of her mind: she punches her way into his and goes straight to the heart of him, and the heart of him is wide-eyed, trembling, childish terror. She flays him to the bone and leaves him shaking and stares him down without an ounce of fear left in her eyes.

 

He can't get away from her fast enough.

 

He's failed, again. And now his failure will have consequences that he never foresaw. Supreme Leader wants to destroy another set of planets and as if that wasn't bad enough, on one of those planets is

 

_MOM._

 

Kylo Ren panics, swears he will get the map from the girl, doesn't even stop to think about how he's going to manage that because quite simply he knows he has to because the alternative is unthinkable, the alternative is his mother's death and he hasn't seen her in fifteen years and they are on opposing sides of a war but the thought of her not existing, not fighting her lost cause, somewhere out in the galaxy, is not one that his mind or his heart can accept. He will have one more chance, just one chance but then the girl is gone ... the crumbling that began when she broke into his mind gets worse. He's beginning to break down, to fall apart completely. He's hunting for her, he has to find her and use whatever means necessary to get that map out of her head even if he has to rip it out of her because if he doesn't his mother is doomed and that _shouldn't_ matter to him, that shouldn't be his motivation, his only goal should be to please Snoke and of course he does want to prove to his master that he can do this, of course he doesn't want to fail but his master's wishes are far from the forefront of his mind …

 

And then he senses Han Solo's presence. And everything turns upside down again. He's afraid of seeing the old man around every corner, behind every door. _Just keep moving just keep going find the girl get the map find a way out of this disaster_ … but Han Solo finds him, instead. Comes up behind him and shouts a name he hasn't heard for half his life. And for so long he's told himself that Ben Solo was dead and gone.

 

But when his father calls his name, he answers.

 

He doesn't want to but he can't help it. The little boy in the locked room at the back of his mind raises his head, hope flaring bright inside him, and Kylo Ren turns to face Ben's father, hears himself claimed in words

 

_BEN my son BEN my son BEN my son BEN_

 

takes off his mask at his father's request, watches the emotions play out across the weathered face and tries so hard not to feel them reflected in his own heart when Han Solo steps towards him he flinches away steps back into the shadows but he cannot hide anymore he is crumbling and breaking and scattering like ashes on the wind and all of his words are empty lies as it turns out he is still a son and this is still his father, no matter how many bitter years have passed, no matter how much has been broken and destroyed this much has not. This is still the man who used to toss him into the air; this is still the boy who used to know that his father would always be there to catch him.

 

Han Solo is a cheat and a con artist and a liar but when he says that Supreme Leader will destroy Kylo Ren he knows that that is nothing but the truth but the thing is it doesn't matter how could it matter now what about him is worth keeping alive anyway he failed as a son he failed as a Jedi he failed he failed as Ben Solo and now he has failed as Kylo Ren and he has always known that he was worthless so why should it matter who in the world cares if he dies he doesn't even care if he dies

 

But, impossibly, Han Solo still cares enough to close the distance, to walk towards his son with sorrow and hope mingled in his eyes and finally - _finally_ \- tell Ben that he has come to take him home.

 

_we miss you_

 

They missed him? Ben the burden? Ben the mistake? For a moment, he wants it so badly that he actually lets himself believe it. But then, looking into his father's eyes as the light of Starkiller's sun fades and dies around them, he remembers.

 

There is no home to go back to.

 

And all his hope, all his joy, blackens and burns into sorrow and rage.

 

_come **home?** there is no home you fool don't you understand that can't you see why couldn't you have said this to me twenty years ago why did you wait until now my mother is going to die and **it's all my fault** it's my fault it's my fault no wait **it's your fault** too you left me and you left her and now you show up? you're too late it's too late why didn't you come for me years ago why didn't you try to save me when there was still something left to save why did you leave me why did you ALWAYS leave me _

 

His heart is still a flame, flickering and turning with the wind. And when the wind blows wrong, just for one second, just for one instant … it's enough.

 

Enough to ignite a dark shadow in him that rises up to swallow the light.

 

Supreme Leader Snoke is all he has. There is no coming home. There is no going back. He can only go forward and the only path forward is through the Dark side. If he submerges himself in darkness then he will never have to feel the pain ever again.

 

Ben always knew, when he was little, that if he lost his parents he would lose himself too. Now, he wants to be lost. So he does it, the act so unthinkable that even until the moment it's done, he doesn't even know if he's capable. But he is. He does.

 

The heartbeat that used to lull him to sleep ... he stops it.

 

The scream of the scavenger girl matches the scream in Ben Solo's heart. Chewbacca's agonized howl is the same sound that Ben Solo's soul is making. And when he lets his father go, when he pushes him away, when Han Solo tumbles off that bridge and into the abyss below ...

 

... Ben does not fall with him.

 

He does not die. He does not disappear. He is not destroyed. He is not gone.

 

He is left standing on that bridge ALONE with the weight of what he has just done and what he can never take back. He is homeless and fatherless and soon to be motherless everything is a mistake he is a mistake everything he has ever done is wrong and it is now seconds too late to stop himself.

 

_What have I done what have I done **what have I DONE**_

 

He has not been swallowed up, consumed in darkness. His pain is not gone.

 

It's a hundred a thousand a million times worse.

 

The pain of the bowcaster bolt only wakes him up. Physical pain has only ever given him focus.

And right now, he lifts his eyes and focuses on the traitor and the scavenger.

 

Hate and rage rip through him and when they run like cowards he rises to his feet and he goes after them. What else is he going to do? He blames them for this, especially FN-2187. This is their fault as much as it is his, weakening him distracting him making him fail if it weren't for the two of them none of this would have happened and he will have his revenge.

 

He's a star knocked out of orbit, hurtling loose and wild through the blackness of space, burning out, nowhere to go. Everything is going so horribly wrong. He just wants to make everyone around him hurt as badly as he does. It's all that he has ever been good at, the only thing he knows how to do. In pain he is feral and more dangerous than ever and he literally has nothing nothing nothing left to lose. The traitor and the scavenger have each other and he has no one no one _**no one**_

 

But he can still make it out of this with one thing. If he can just take the girl then maybe somehow all of this will have been worth it. In his wounded state, in his devastated mind, this somehow makes perfect sense to him. She is something warm and bright and brave in the cold dark fearful place that is Kylo Ren's life; she is something new and vibrant in a life that long ago wore thin and stale and hollow. He hasn't felt the sunlight on his skin in years, but he thinks it felt something like being in her presence feels. It doesn't really matter to him if she wants to stay; she'll see the wisdom of it, feel the rightness of it eventually. He can make her understand he knows he can if there is anyone left in the entire galaxy who can understand him it's her he knows that because they are alike they are made of the same terrible broken pieces and he is not letting her out of his sight because if he does then all of this will really have been for nothing and he cannot will not let that be true he refuses to allow that to be true maybe he doesn't even have to go back to Supreme Leader maybe he can just take the girl and run there's a whole galaxy out there at least for now and she has never seen any of it well he could show her there is so much he could show her and there is so much that she could show him he wants that fire that keeps her alive and glowing when the rest of the world is wrecked and ruined around her …

 

.. but she calls him a monster and he knows it's true he knows it but if he is a monster at least that means he doesn't have to feel he doesn't have to care he doesn't have to stop so he knocks her out; she is the Force-user, the bigger threat. He doesn't expect the stormtrooper to cause too much of a problem. Certainly doesn't expect the traitor to face him with the Skywalker lightsaber in hand, much less be the first to charge. But so be it. Fight and hurt and maim and kill; this is what Kylo Ren knows how to do, this is his arena, this is the only way in which he has never failed. Burn and slash and punch but he's in so much pain pain pain and it's not helping him pain is not his ally this time pain is fickle and he's weakening and there is not much time. He stops toying with FN-2187 and cuts him down quick and cruel, leaves him dying in the snow he should have left him dying in the Jakku sand and none of this would have ever happened and he thinks it's over but then it's not over. It's not over because the girl has the lightsaber now and that wild courage that he felt in her mind is now written all over her face. And she comes for him.

 

He doesn't need the pain to give him focus anymore. He just zeroes in on her. The entire world, the entire cracking, burning, fractured planet, the entire galaxy ... it all just shrinks down to encompass only the two of them, only the moments of strike and block and retreat and chase. The strange thing is that both of them, in their own way, are absolutely terrified. And both are equally determined to get what they want. But the problem is, only one of them can.

 

And she is sure of who she is. And he has no idea. And she has never been stronger, and he has never been weaker in his entire life.

 

These moments are forever burned into his mind as surely as the scars are burned into his skin, imprinted bright and clear and sharp and brightly saturated, brilliantly lit. They are in hers as well ... she doesn't linger long in those moments. She takes what she needs and moves on to the moment she felled him. He wishes that she wouldn't stay in that moment so long ... _it hurts, it hurts_... but she stands over him and stares down at him and he's back in that moment wishing she would just kill him, just get it over with already but the rage has faded out of her eyes and she's just standing there looking frightened and perturbed by what she's done. When the ground splits apart and carries her away, when she turns her back on him and runs, she takes the last of his hope with her. She takes everything with her when she goes.

 

He's left to press his face into the cold snow. The planet is cracking open and falling apart. He wants nothing but for the ground to open up a little more and swallow him. _No one is coming to save you no one is coming to save you_ he tells himself over and over, but for the first time these words are almost a comfort. He doesn't want to be saved. He wants to be erased. He wants to be gone.

 

So when Hux arrives with stormtroopers in tow, come to carry what's left of Kylo Ren away from what's left of Starkiller Base, he's furious.

 

"Leave me," he snarls weakly, digging his hands into the snowy ground, feeling the warm drip of blood from his side. He just wants it to end, just wants everything to end. "Just leave me."

 

Hux's pale eyes say longingly _I wish I could_ and his mouth says bitterly "I have my orders, Ren." He's loaded onto a gurney and carried away. He loses consciousness several times between the woods and the Finalizer. Each time he comes back to himself, he hopes to find that Ben has been left behind, dead in the snow.

 

But each time, he finds that he is still Ben and he is still being torn apart; he's killed his own father, doomed his mother, and he's going to be alive to face that truth every single day until Supreme Leader decides to destroy him.

 

 _But here you are,_ Rey says, inside his mind.

 

 _But here I am,_ he echoes.

 

_How did that happen?_

 

_Watch._

 

She does. She watches him lying there in the aftermath, broken and bandaged in his scars and his disgrace. When the ghost of Han Solo first appears in that medbay, Rey feels shock: shock followed immediately by a wave of open-hearted joy. Rey feels everything that Ben wishes he could have felt, knows that he _should_ have felt, when his father came back to him in the only way he could.

 

Things move more quickly, more smoothly after that; Rey drinks in each apparition, every conversation and argument and revelation of the past several weeks, every memory, the good and the bad alike. She watches Kylo Ren fall apart, time and time again. Cringes when he lashes out at the ghosts and at himself, when he fights to stay on the Dark side. Shares his agony and his horror when he learns that he's been living and killing for a lie all these years. Watches intently as he slowly and painfully starts to becomes Ben again, as he tries to fight for the light inside of him instead of fighting against it.

 

She almost sees him fail.

 

Because of course he has to let her see his stupid, selfish plan, the one that brought him here. Rey recoils from it, nearly falling out of his mind. Ben is so ashamed: at lying to his father, at trying to trick Rey into killing him, at his cowardly attempt to escape the punishment he so deserves.

 

_What changed your mind?_

 

The Force connecting them hums, swirling equal parts bright and dark. _You did,_ Ben tells her. _You woke me up._

 

Rey jumps out of his mind as if she's been burned.

 

He feels her withdraw, their consciousnesses becoming distinct again, and it's dizzying, a cold feeling. He must have closed his eyes at some point; now he opens them, blinking back tears and he finds himself staring right into Rey's eyes. She's holding his face in both her hands now - _when did that happen?_ \- and at some point she's started crying too.

 

Rey leans in, clearly drained from her efforts, and rests her forehead against Ben's. He freezes at once, his hands braced on the muddy ground, shocked and completely unsure how to react to this unexpected gesture of kinship. There's a consequence to being immersed in someone else's mind, an awful intimacy, a lingering feeling of knowing the person you've been reading, even if they were a stranger. They weren't exactly strangers before. Now, they can never be strangers again.

 

She now knows the best and the worst of him. Is he better or worse than she thought that he would be?

 

She hasn't pulled away yet, her fingers are still splayed out warm and rough on his face, her tears mingling with his, her forehead still pressed to his. It's all so strange, so entirely opposite from what he thought was going to happen, and he's nothing he's equipped to handle but selfish as he is, he lets himself rest there, just for a few moments. Just until he calls back the tears and he can breathe again.

 

“Obi-Wan never told me,” Rey mumbles, an accusing note in her watery voice. “He never told me about your father.”

 

Ben feels the corners of his mouth hitch in a half-smile. “Jedi Force-ghosts have some sort of rules they have to follow. My … my father seems to make his own.”

 

Rey half-laughs, half-sobs, and Ben's throat lumps up again, still sore from being Force-choked.

 

“Why would you want to help a coward?” he whispers.

 

“You're a lot of things,” Rey answers him, also in a whisper, “but a coward is not one of them. If you were a coward, you'd be dead right now.”

 

Ben pulls back, Rey's hands falling to her sides, and he feels cold and wet and aching in the absence of a kind touch but he doesn't deserve a kind touch, much less from this girl to whom he has dealt so many cruel blows. She follows his movements with blinking, dazed eyes still sparkling with tears, her muddy cheeks streaked with them, and she looks confused by his pulling away or maybe she's confused about why she reached out to him in the first place. She looks every bit as uncomfortable as he feels.

 

“You should hurt me,” Ben hears himself blurt out, his voice raspy and cracking from his aching throat.

 

Rey blinks and scrunches her face up in utter bafflement. “I … sorry … what?”

 

“Hit me,” Ben says wildly, “kick me, or slap me, or pull my hair. Something. It's up to you. After everything … after what I've done to you … you should. It's okay. I won't fight back.”

 

Rey's eyes heat up, and her hands ball into fists, and she doesn't look any less fearsome for the tearstains on her cheeks. “I am not Snoke,” she practically snarls. “So as much as I might _want_ to hit you, I'm not going to do it. Besides … my hand still hurts.”

 

“But ...” Ben feels stupid, and embarrassed. He just wants to show her, won't feel right about any of this until he's let her know that he's sorry. He doesn't know any other way to make up for failures than through punishment. _But that was the Dark side._

 

Words are so empty, so useless, but if he can't give his flesh in penance then …

 

"I'm sorry," Ben says huskily, the words catching in his throat, dropping heavy from his lips. It's not enough, it won't change anything, no words could hope to stretch to cover the breadth of his transgressions, and he doesn't expect words to make things better between them, but the words are all he has. "I'm sorry, Rey, for hurting you. For hurting … the people you cared about. I am truly, deeply sorry, and I want you to know … if I could do it differently … "

 

Rey nods, cutting him off, which is good because he has run out of words. "I know." It's not forgiveness, but it's acknowledgment, it's understanding, and inside of Ben it feels like a wound is starting to knit back together. _She knows._ That might be all he ever gets, but that, he finds, is enough.

 

Inhaling a deep, shaky breath, Rey wipes some stray tears away with the back of her hand. When her eyes are clear, she looks at him, just looks, for several long moments. Everything she's feeling, everything she's thinking shows on her face, and Ben is sure that he's just as much an open book in that moment. He couldn't hide from her even if he wanted to. She sees what he has seen, every awful and wonderful thing that he has experienced in his twenty-nine years of life. There are very many awful things ... but there is more goodness in there than he remembered. He could feel how tenderly she held those bright moments in her hands. Surely she will realize he can never be forgiven for throwing those good things away. He had everything that her harsh life denied her, and he turned his back on all of it. How could she ever excuse him for that?

 

"We should go," Rey says suddenly, "before we freeze to death, or the First Order arrives."

 

His heart, unused to leaping, stumbles and trips in his chest. "You mean I can go with you?"

 

Rey nods. “That's what I mean. Unless you'd rather stay, of course.”

 

Ben knew what she was going to say but he can still hardly dare to believe it. It's one thing to think that his mother might want him back, but this girl ... she owes him nothing, has no blood ties to him, no guilt to bear, no lingering affection. She has no affection for him at all, and every right to hate him for the various ways in which he has hurt her and the handful of people she cares for. He knows that part of her still must hate him, at least a little bit; sympathy and sentiment can only go so far. But she's decided, for whatever reason, to ignore her own feelings and take this chance. She knows him as deeply as he knows himself, and perhaps better, seeing him through clearer eyes. Because of her, even he cannot refuse to see that there is still something left of him, something that's still capable of being saved. Still worth being saved. He doesn't know what it is that she sees. Doesn't know how it's possible. But it must be, because here they are. She's made her choice and now she's waiting for him to make his.

 

He can go willingly. He can _choose_ this. He'll end up dead sooner or later anyway, but it appears that it's not going to be today. He can't let himself think about all that means, all that it entails, all the struggle that still lays ahead of him, because if he does he might just lie down in the mud and never get up. But he wants to get up. He wants to go.

 

How much time has passed since he crashed here? It suddenly occurs to him that he has no idea. The entire day could have gone by and he wouldn't have noticed. But something tells him that it hasn't been that long; something tells him that years' worth of changes have taken place, have finally all unfolded, in a matter of just a couple of hours.

 

He wants to get out of here, he wants to get as far away from the Finalizer and the First Order as he possibly can; he wants to go with Rey so much he can hardly breathe, but he can still hardly believe it's possible, that it will actually be allowed.

 

Rey is getting to her feet now, making a futile attempt to brush the mud off her sodden clothes and gather the ragged loose ends of her hair back into their ponytail. With a sigh, she gives up and looks down at him, and he looks up at her, wide-eyed.

 

"Aren't you coming?" she asks him, raising an eyebrow.

 

Ben bites his lip, chewing on the pain of the bruise blooming there. Rey sees his hesitation born of fear, his mistrust of anything good directed at him. Next thing he knows she's looking off to the side, frowning, and then she holds out her hand and something flies out of the mud and into her grip.

 

His lightsaber.

 

“You might need this,” she points out, holding it out to him. And he knows in his heart that this is more than simply a practical gesture.

 

_She trusts me._

 

He takes the saber hilt from her and fixes it to his belt with trembling hands, but somehow he still can't bring himself to rise to his feet. A strange dreamlike feeling has come over him … is any of this happening? Is any of it real?

 

“Hey,” Rey says, waving her hand in front of his face. “Ben. Ben Solo!”

 

The sound of his true name strikes something deep in him, like the chord of a long-forgotten song, and he shakes himself and looks up to see Rey as he saw her in last night's dream … holding out a hand to help him to his feet.

 

"We're going home,” she tells him, quiet but sure.

 

 _Home,_ Ben thinks, and reaches up, taking Rey's hand, and with a little help from her, he stands. His entire body hates him for what he's put it through today and there's mud all over him and face is sticky with tears and his nose is stopped up and his hair is a _mess_ and he's sure his dad is going to have some choice words for him, the next time they talk.

 

He almost can't wait to hear them.

 

“Well, um … I hope that you brought a fast ship,” Ben says awkwardly.

 

Astonishingly, Rey smiles. “Oh, of course,” she tells him. “The fastest.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: (says i'll update fic in a week)  
> me: (doesn't)  
> (insert gif of anakin screaming "LIAR!!1" here)
> 
> jokes aside, it was wonderful to finally be able to write this chapter but also nerve-wracking! i really hope you guys like it, and am really looking forward to your comments/feedback/screams/etc. you all make me so happy and hopefully this chapter makes you all happy too <3


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he woke up today, he was Kylo Ren. But it's Ben Solo who will lay down to sleep tonight, and it will be Ben Solo who rises tomorrow morning, and every morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damn ben, back at it again with the redemption arc

Ben and Rey stumble through the jungle in silence except for the squelching of their boots in the mud, the cracking and rustling of foliage in their wake, the hushed labor of their breathing. Dagobah no less a dark and forbidding place than it was when Kylo Ren's shuttle crashed here a few hours ago, and yet he no longer sees it the same way. In the storm's aftermath, the air is clear, generous, and forgiving to his ravaged throat. The trees don't crowd in as harshly, the shadows don't lay so thick or so heavy, and even though Ben Solo knows he must be tired, dehydrated, filthy, soaked, bloodied, bruised and aching, he does not feel these things. It's like being hurt inside a dream; it doesn't matter, it isn't real. But this unsteady march, this dogged progress through jungle and swamp, is no dream.

 

This is real, and it is happening.

 

_I'm going home._ _ **We**_ _are going home._ His heart is warm as flame inside his chest. It has just remembered what it's like to want to keep beating.

 

“Not much farther now,” Rey pants, glancing over her shoulder at him. She sweeps a strand of damp hair away from her face, leaving a smear of mud across her nose instead. Ben nods, and promptly stumbles over a protruding tree root, managing to catch himself with the palm of his hand against the tree's mossy trunk before he goes down. To his chagrin and astonishment, Rey muffles a snort, the tipped corners of her mouth just barely hinting at a smile. She's trying to tamp it down, but the sparkle in her eyes gives her away.

 

“Sorry,” she says, without a hint of apology in her tone. “It's just that … we must both look completely ridiculous. Like a pair of half-drowned womp rats.”

 

Ben coughs and sets his throat to aching. Self-consciously, he drags a hand through his hair and finds it just as damp, muddied, and tangled as it was the last time he checked. Rey doesn't seem to notice; she's already moving, turning her back on that moment of camaraderie that Ben is stuck in, slogging determinedly on, shoving vines and branches out of her path. _Our path._

 

“It could be worse,” Ben says hoarsely, a beat too late.

 

Rey looks sharply back at him. “Hmm?”

 

“We could look like fully-drowned womp rats.”

 

The half-giggle, half-snort that explodes from Rey's lips startles both of them; Rey's hand flies up to cover her mouth and Ben goes red to the tips of his ears. For a moment, they pause and just look at each other, newly cautious in the wake of the intimacy brought by humor. An awkward silence falls, filled only by the chirps and squawks of Dagobah's wildlife, making their presence known again in the calm after the storm. Ben feels strange, lightened. How long has it been since he made someone laugh instead of cringe with his caustic humor?

 

In the ensuing quiet, the brightness of Rey's smile fades, replaced by a shadow of uncertainty. "You should know,” she tells him, “I didn't exactly come alone.”

 

Ben lowers his gaze, affected but unsurprised. "I didn't exactly think you would.”

 

"I needed a co-pilot,” Rey clarifies, a tad sheepishly. Ben only nods. Seeing that he's not going to speak, Rey gathers herself, brushing aside a thick curtain of vines and moss and stepping through it. Ben knows he's meant to follow, but all of a sudden his mind is not working properly and his legs won't move. Rey pokes her head back through the curtain of green, the moss shedding more water on her, rivulets trailing down her cheeks and her neck, making tracks through the dirt, clinging to her eyelashes and sparkling as she blinks at him.

 

"What's the holdup?”

 

"He won't want to see me," Ben says. His voice is gravelly, cracking. His split lower lip throbs and his eyes prickle with the heat of new tears. _Pathetic._

 

The quick sympathy in Rey's eyes is swiftly glossed over by a calm practicality. "Don't be silly; of course he wants to see you. Why else would he have come?"

 

_To finish me off, and I wouldn't blame him._ But Ben doesn't say that. He can't bring himself to say anything, he just stands there: silent, stupid and staring at Rey. There's still so much he doesn't understand about what's happened today, so much he's going to have to sort through at some point … right now there's no way he can take it all in, no way he can hope to make sense of it. He can't even bring himself to ask for the assurance he needs, except with his eyes. He has no right to ask assurance from her and he knows this, but she offered it before and he liked it too much. He's been starving for kindness for so long ... he wants more.

 

Rey closes her eyes, sighs once, and meets Ben's gaze firmly. "It's going to be okay. I promise.” Sincere as she is, there's a grudging edge to her words; they are a scrap of kindness. It's all that Rey can bring herself to give him right now, and it's more than Ben expected, more than he knows what to do with. All that's left to do is trust her. She has trusted him, after all, against so may very good reasons not to. The least he can do is extend her the same trust in return. So Ben picks up his feet and follows close behind Rey until the trees around them to thin out, and the two of them break through the treeline and into a clearing, where the Millennium Falcon waits.

 

At the sight of the old banged-up freighter, Rey visibly relaxes, brightening and settling into a more comfortable, easy, natural version of herself. Ben would be able to appreciate this, if it weren't for the sickening thud of his heart, the roaring in his ears. To him, the sight of the Falcon is like a slap in the face, bringing back a flood of memories: some good, some bad, all hurting. Ben can strongly sense the presence of the one who waits for them here. When he was little, he always associated that presence with safety and shelter, with warmth and comfort. But Ben feels no warmth and no comfort now: only fresh guilt, fresh shame, fresh dread. The bowcaster wound on his side and hip has started to itch. Ben's hands are tight and shaking fists at his sides, and he keeps blinking rapidly because the alternative is crying again. This is going to hurt, no matter what, and there's no way he can hope to prepare or brace himself for it. So he might as well not even try.

 

At that very moment, Chewbacca comes striding down the Falcon's ramp, bowcaster in hand.

 

When the Wookiee sees Ben, he stops and roars. The sound shakes through Ben and his heart twists as he waits, prepared to face whatever happens next. Or maybe he's totally unprepared. He can't really tell the difference anymore. But then Rey shifts her weight, stepping closer to Ben; it takes him a second, but then he gets what she's doing: visibly allying herself with him, conveying that there's no danger. Chewie stops in mid-roar and cocks his head, his black nose twitching, his eyes keen.

 

"It's all right!" Rey calls out quickly, in answer to the unspoken question. "We're both all right!"

 

With a _whuff_ of profound relief, Chewie drops the bowcaster and closes the distance between himself and the humans in several quick, huge strides. Rey smoothly takes a step back, and before he can react Ben finds himself being crushed in the Wookiee's powerful arms, smothered against the broad hairy chest - _so this is how I'm going to die, I suppose there are worse ways -_ except …. Chewie is cradling Ben, huge paws patting his filthy, tangled hair.

 

The Wookiee's death grip is actually a fierce embrace.

 

Ben has not been hugged in years. His body doesn't remember how to respond to being embraced; his arms are stiff at his sides and he's frozen, unresponsive. His heart is the only part of him that moves, racing too hard and too fast like some small and helpless animal caught in a snare.

 

Chewie groans, the sound reverberating through Ben, half-admonishment and half-plea. Something in him gives way and crumbles, falling hard, knocking time and tension and tragedy aside, leaving no room for them. Ben buries his face in Chewie's chest and wraps his arm's around the Wookiee with all the strength that's left in him.

 

Chewie's voice is a low and soothing rumble as he welcomes Ben back.

 

“Your aim was off,” Ben chokes out, his eyes wet, his voice muffled by the thick fur. Just as he always has, Chewbacca smells pleasantly of trees.

 

Chewie whines a protest that he hit exactly where he meant to, and Ben squeezes Chewie tighter. The gentle, repetitive motion of the strong furry hands patting his hair soothes him instantly, like the restless child he used to be. And with apologies fresh and bittersweet in his mouth, he knows he has to acknowledge what he's done wrong. Begin to clean up the mess he's made.

 

“I'm sorry,” Ben rasps, his voice thick. “Chewie, I'm so- ...”

 

Chewie hugs him harder, cutting off the words, so Ben goes quiet. He deserves no mercy, no forgiveness, let alone affection … but he's just too tired to fight anymore. He is too tired, in this moment, to do anything but let himself be loved.

 

They stay like that for a few more moments; Chewie rocking Ben, Ben clinging to Chewie, finding letting go of his father's best friend now as impossible as embracing him felt, only moments ago.

 

"Hey, you guys …” Rey pipes up softly. “We should probably ...”

 

Before she can get the rest of her words out, Chewie reaches out to pull Rey into the hug too, locking his arms around both Rey and Ben, squashing them all together. It's warm and awkward and clumsy and ends all too soon. When Chewie releases the humans, they both stumble at suddenly having to stand on their own. Ben touches Rey's shoulder, not entirely sure whether he's trying to steady her or himself, but she draws away quickly. The strange closeness between them on the walk to the ship was just a result of her being in his mind, just a lingering side effect which has now begun to fade. He tries not to let that bother him. Right now, they have bigger problems.

 

“Let's get out of here,” Rey says, and Ben nods and Chewie roars agreement.

 

After the thick darkness of Dagobah, the lights in the Falcon are almost blinding to Ben, illuminating every scratch and ding and streak of dirt on the walls of the old freighter. Unavoidably, Ben thinks about the last time he was on this ship ... searching for his father, finding only pain. The pain is distant now, held at bay by the shining newness of his situation and the urgency of needing to escape, to get as far away from the First Order as possible. But he knows that it's going to return and that when it does, it's going to be very, very bad …

 

_Cut it out. Don't think about that. This will all have been for nothing if the Order catches us now. **Move!**_

 

While he's been standing there, blinking in the light, Chewie and Rey have already moved on and gotten down to business; the ship shudders and jolts to life, and Ben follows their wet and muddy footprints to the cockpit. Chewie is in the captain's chair, ready to take off, and Rey, in the copilot's seat, is raising the shields. Feeling rather like a spare part, Ben sinks into the seat behind Rey's. He doesn't fit as comfortably back there as he used to, when he liked that seat because he lean forward and hold his mother's hand, and watch his father's face, catch that easy grin, when it would turn his way …

 

His chest contracts and it's hard to breathe, but then the sensation of the Falcon lifting off from the ground distracts Ben from the memories. Through the viewport, the towering trees of Dagobah begin to shrink into sticks. The surface of the planet blurs into mud-and-green, and then is obscured by fog and clouds. No lightning, though … that much is in their favor. But forget storms. It's the thought of the Finalizer, waiting in space for them, that has Ben on edge.

 

"If we get lucky," says Rey as they leave the planet behind, "maybe the interference in this system will keep them from picking us up on their scanners."

 

"We won't get lucky," Ben replies, grim and quiet. "They saw you land. The Finalizer is on the alert. There are fighters circling this entire planet ..."

 

"Then we'll just have to fight our way out!” Rey might be saying she's going to the market, for all the fear she shows at the prospect of going up against a Star Destroyer.

 

The thought of firing on First Order ships unnerves Ben. It goes against everything he's been fighting for for half his life … except, he reminds himself, he was fighting for a liar and a lie. Everything he has done in the service of Snoke and the First Order has been wrong. Now he has to make things right, whatever it takes. And besides … _The Force is with us._ He knows this, feels it, and it steadies him. He doesn't trust himself, but he trusts the Force, the only thing that has never left him, that has always been there. It is with them now.

 

Which is good, because so are their enemies.

 

“Two fighters, closing fast!” Rey announces. There's no alarm in her voice or on her face.

 

_Perfect._ A distraction, a task, a way he can be useful. Ben is out of his seat and heading for the gunner's tower before either Chewie or Rey can respond, scrambling up the ladder and hurling himself into the chair. Taking hold of the controls immediately feels right. He might not be much of a pilot, but he's good at hitting things. His gloves are still rather damp, sticking to his hands and hindering his movements. He peels them off and tosses them down, flexes his pale fingers and takes the controls again.

 

“Company's coming!” Rey shouts.

 

“I'm ready,” Ben hoarsely shouts back.

 

He's not.

 

A TIE fighter comes shrieking towards them through space, the sound scraping Ben's nerves raw. His first instinct is not to fire on the TIE, and there is a precious second he wastes by freezing, his brain screaming _traitor traitor traitor_ until his mind finally goes still. He just makes the shot, and the TIE goes flaring up into a cloud of debris. But the second fighter, approaching from the bow, is not so easily defeated.

 

Chewie is firing from the cockpit and Ben is firing too, but the TIE pilot knows their business: weaving between the blasts, maneuvering the fighter skillfully, dangerously close, and maybe if Han Solo were piloting the Falcon right now, that wouldn't be a problem. But he's not, and it is.

 

Ben's next shot sails past the TIE, barely missing it, and in the same instant, the fighter gets off one good shot. The impact rocks the Falcon violently, and Ben grips the controls tighter, grinding his teeth. _Shit, shit, shit._ Chewie is howling from the cockpit, the shields are holding by a thread, and the TIE fighter is coming around for another pass.

 

A shot from the Falcon's cockpit strikes the TIE, sending it spiraling and screaming out of control … but not before the fighter gets in one last, good hit. The shot batters the shields and rocks the Falcon hard, setting off a series of shudders and jolts that feel like very bad news. An alarm is sounding throughout the ship. It's still going off when they're clear of the fighters, when they jump to hyperspace and the stars streak out around them like silver ribbons.

 

The clanging sirens shut off one by one, but something still off feels, feels wrong in the heart of the ship … but hey, they are still flying. And they are still free.

 

Ben slides back down the ladder and rejoins Chewie and Rey in the cockpit.

 

“How bad is it?” he asks, calm now.

 

Chewie sums up the extent of their damages with a series of increasingly grumpy howls and frustrated gestures. The TIE fighter's blast had managed to set off a series of small explosions in some of the Falcon's systems. Taken by themselves, any one of these damages would have been minor. Taken together, they spell trouble in the long term. They will need to stop somewhere to get some new parts and make repairs, and soon.

 

“How far can we get on what we have?” Rey wants to know, wrapping the end of her ponytail around her fist in an anxious gesture.

 

Chewie shrugs helplessly, throwing up his hands. He's all worked up over the state of the Falcon. As Chewie complains, Ben pulls up a star chart. The projections of the stars and planets glow bright and blue around them, their sudden appearance cutting off Chewie's laments and Rey's reassurances. Ben points at the planet he was looking for, only then realizing he's forgotten his gloves in the gunner's tower. He'll go back for them later.

 

“Here,” he says, scratchy-voiced. “It's only a couple of parsecs away, and there's no First Order presence there.”

 

“You're sure?” Rey asks him. Well, he can't blame her for questioning him.

 

He nods, glancing over at her. “I'm sure. We'll be able to find parts there, but it's far enough out of the way that we probably won't be recognized. Not right away at least.” His voice breaks and he coughs; Chewie saves him from having to say anything more by grunting in agreement. Now, they have a course. A destination.

 

“This will put us behind on meeting up with Master Luke,” Rey says unhappily, still holding her hair in her fist.

 

_Good,_ Ben thinks savagely. He'd known that if he went with Rey, his path must inevitably cross with Luke Skywalker's, but the longer he can avoid seeing his uncle, the better. Still, the quick sadness that passes across Rey's and then is gone … it prevents him from being completely pleased with this turn of events.

 

“He'll understand,” Ben hears himself saying instead.

 

Rey favors him with the tiniest of smiles. “Well. Now that that's settled,” she says, “I think I'll go get cleaned up.” She shakes her hair out and heads for the door, but then hesitates, glancing back at Ben. “Unless you'd rather ...”

 

He shakes his head. “You go ahead. I can wait.” The fresher sounds like heaven right now, but letting Rey go first seems like the right thing to do. When Rey's gone, Ben sits down next to Chewie, in the co-pilot's seat. He doesn't know where else to go, what else to do. He was practically born on this ship, but he's still an outsider for now. The most familiar aspect of this surreal day is Chewie, so Ben wants to stay near him for as long as he's allowed.

 

At first he's worried that Chewie will try to talk to him, to ask him questions he just doesn't have it in him to answer … not today, maybe not ever. But he'd forgotten how innately understanding Chewie is. Every so often Chewie will reach out and ruffle Ben's already hopeless hair, or pat him on the shoulder nearly hard enough to send him sliding from his seat. Otherwise, he gives him plenty of quiet, plenty of space. Ben is so sleepy, he's almost started to doze off when …

 

"Fresher's all yours," Rey pipes up from the doorway.

 

Startled, Ben turns to her. She's dressed in a clean change of clothes, her freckled skin glowing from a fresh scrubbing. Her brown hair is loose around her shoulders, half-dry and curling in small tendrils around her face. She's holding her hand up awkwardly next to her shoulder, bacta smeared across her scraped knuckles, and she looks as awkward as he feels.

 

Ben shakes himself. "Thanks," he mumbles, unfolding his stiff, aching body to his full height. Chewie pats him on the back, and Rey quickly steps aside to allow him past her.

 

"There's soap and everything in there," she tells him. “And I left the medkit out if you want to use it. And there's a bunk made up for you, if you want to sleep.” She says this all very fast.

 

"Thanks," he says again. Has he ever used that word so many times in one day? He stumbles towards the fresher; at least he remembers where it is. His feet know where they're taking him, even though his mind is far from clear. _My father's ship ... my father ..._ He needs to talk to him, he needs to see him, he needs to explain, to apologize, he needs ...

 

_It can wait,_ he instructs himself. _One thing at a time._ Because he knows that's all he can handle right now.

 

Once the door of the fresher room closes behind him, Ben leans against the wall, drawing a deep breath, filling his lungs to bursting. His throat still aches from earlier. All of him aches, the pain making its presence felt now that he's alone with it. But he can bear this. It's a good ache, the ache of a battle well-fought, a day thoroughly lived. It seems like another lifetime entirely when he made the decision to die. But it was only three days ago.

 

Ben strips off his muddied, rain-soaked clothing piece by piece, tossing everything to the floor in a messy pile. The air is cold on his bare skin and makes him shiver, so he braces himself against the sink. Raising his head, he makes eye contact with his reflection in the mirror. His face is splattered with mud and blood, his throat and his ribs are bruised, and his lower lip is gashed, puffy, and swollen. His hair looks like gundarks have been nesting in it. _Rey was right,_ he thinks with a touch of hilarity; _you do look ridiculous._

 

Ben steps into the fresher stall and turns on the water hot enough to sting his skin and fills the fresher with so much steam he can hardly breathe. He stands still for a long time, letting the achingly hot water run over him. Eventually, he snaps out of his trance and reaches for the cake of soap. It smells like flowers, though he's not sure what variety. He used to know about flowers, when he was younger, but of course he hasn't had a use for them in years. The smell is gentle, soothing, somehow kind, if a scent can be kind. It makes him think of his grandmother, when he met her in his dream the night before. _Is she proud of me now? Are you, Grandfather?_

 

Ben scrubs his skin raw. It's like he's trying to wash off every trace of the past fifteen years, every trace of Supreme Leader Snoke, of the First Order. Every trace of Kylo Ren. This effort, like so many of his, is doomed to failure … there's nothing that he can do to rid himself of the person he has been, because he is still that person. But he still tries. Still feels better for having tried.

 

When the water runs cold, he realizes he can't stay in the fresher forever. Reluctantly he steps out and grabs a towel. He's almost done drying off when something catches his eye. At some point while he was lost in his thoughts, lost in the steam, Chewie must have sneaked in to take his muddy clothes and leave him some clean ones. They rest in a neatly folded pile on the edge of the sink. Ben reaches out and lifts the white shirt in his hands, then he closes his eyes and sighs weakly, absorbing the impact of yet another emotional gut-punch. Chewie probably tried his best to pick the plainest outfit he could, the most generic items with the fewest memories attached to them, but … the clothes still smell like Han Solo.

 

Since the only other option is walking around naked, Ben grits his teeth and puts on his father's clothes. They don't fit perfectly or comfortably – he's taller and broader than his father was – but they'll have to do for now. _And you thought I was playing dress-up before, Dad,_ he thinks ruefully, frowning at his reflection. He wills his father to appear, if only to make fun of his son, but Han Solo doesn't. Ignoring the medkit that Rey left for him – he wants to feel his injuries, minor as they are, as proof that this day was real – Ben quietly creeps to the bunk that's been set aside for him. There are a mismatched assortment of blankets and pillows, as well as a rather large pile of rations bars, a bottle of water, and other assorted space-snacks. It doesn't occur to Ben until he sees the food that he actually is hungry … starving. He sits down on the bunk, cross-legged, and immediately tears into the nearest thing: some dried fruit from Arkanis. Swallowing still hurts but he ignores it. Everything tastes better than it did a few days ago. Probably not a coincidence. He has his mouth full when there's a knock on the door.

 

Ben chokes down the rest of the food. “C-c-come in,” he coughs out.

 

Rey steps cautiously into the room, holding two mugs of steaming-hot liquid, one in each hand. When she sees him in his father's clothes, she does a double-take, her wide brown eyes flicking over Ben in an artlessly interested way that makes him uncomfortable. He rakes a hand through his newly-clean hair and crosses his arms over his chest in an attempt at appearing casual, but really he's just trying to hide. Rey's cheeks redden ever so slightly as she looks away. _What is she staring at, anyway?_ Is she alarmed at the way the scar she gave him spills over his jaw and down his neck and into the collar of the borrowed shirt? Regardless of the reasons for her wide-eyed gaze, the very memory of it makes Ben blush. He's just not accustomed to not being covered up. It makes him feel too vulnerable; the sooner his usual clothes are clean, the better.

 

“Chewie thought you might like some tea,” Rey says after an abnormally long pause. “I thought I'd have some too. It helps me sleep, at least sometimes it does. Anyway, it's good. Here.” She steps closer, holding one of the mugs out to him, and Ben reaches to take it from her, his fingers brushing Rey's, without gloves, for the first time ever. This time, he's the one who flinches away, nearly spilling tea on himself in the process.

 

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

 

“No problem,” Rey says, settling herself on the empty, unmade bunk across from his. “It's cold in here,” she remarks.

 

So why don't you leave? Ben wonders, but he snags one of the blankets from the foot of his bunk and tosses it to Rey, who smiles as she drapes it across her knees. Grateful for the excuse, Ben puts his tea aside for a moment to take the other blanket and wrap it around his shoulders. The soft gray fabric is a feeble shield, but it's better than nothing. He picks up the mug of tea just to have something to do with his hands, but when the scent of it hits his nose he finds it's pleasant, and he takes a cautious sip of it, the hot liquid soothing to his damaged throat.

 

“I thought that we should talk,” Rey says after taking a sip of her own tea. “I mean, if you're up to it ...”

 

It's one thing for Chewie to baby him, but he's had enough of Rey seeing his weaknesses for one day. “You mean if I've sufficiently recovered from you trying to choke me to death?” he says as his snarkily as his voice will allow.

 

Rey looks taken aback, and then indignant. “Need I remind you that you were literally asking for it?”

 

He shakes his head, smirking. “You don't need to remind me. I was joking.”

 

“Oh.” Rey stops bristling and settles back down, her slim, calloused fingers restlessly drumming on the outside of her mug.

 

“What do you want to talk about?”

 

"Snoke," Rey says flatly.

 

The name claws at Ben, bringing instinctive, visceral pain and fear with it. The mug in his hands shakes, nearly sloshing tea over his hands again. "What … what about him?"

 

"When we were fighting," Rey says slowly, cautiously, clearly measuring her words. "Not today, but ... that last time ... I heard a voice. Inside my head."

 

Ben feels like he's choking again. _No. Not her too. He can't do that to her, too._

 

"I didn't know it at the time, of course," Rey continues hastily, as if she just wants to get rid of the words, just wants to get this conversation over with. "But after today, after what you showed me, I recognized it. It was Snoke, I know it was."

 

Ben closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of the tea. The more he focuses on that one sensory detail, the less he feels like he has to rise up and start destroying things.

 

"Aren't you going to ask me what he said?"

 

Ben opens his eyes to meet Rey's troubled ones. "What did he say?" he asks her, even though he's pretty sure he already knows the answer.

 

Rey fidgets but doesn't break eye contact with Ben. "He told me to kill you," she says, matter-of-factly.

 

The words glance off Ben like raindrops off polished chrome. "It makes sense,” he says quietly. “I'd failed him, one too many times. I was weak. Broken. He could rid himself of me and bring you closer to the darkness in the same moment. Wise of him."

 

Rey looks half-horrified, half-angry at his casual acceptance of her confession. "Is that all you have to say?"

 

Ben cocks his head at her, taking in her frustration, wondering at her. "What else is there to say? I always knew that I would run out of chances eventually. Besides ... this only confirms what I already suspected. He … Snoke didn't think I would defeat you today. He was hoping for you to kill me. He wants to replace me with you, which means ..."

 

"... he'll be coming after us," Rey finishes.

 

"He won't stop until he gets what he wants," Ben whispers through cold lips. Aching has been replaced by numbness that spreads to the tips of his fingers and toes, the chill of bone-deep fear. It doesn't occur to him until he's already said them that his words might frighten Rey every bit as much as they frighten him, but they just keep pouring out of him. "He doesn't care what he has to do. Even if he has to destroy everything in his path, he won't stop ..."

 

"We won't let that happen," Rey interrupts. Her tone is fierce, her eyes bright with determination, resolve, and simmering with anger underneath. "We won't."

 

And she sounds so sure, so strong, that Ben almost believes her.

 

They both sit there in silence for a few moments, Ben wrapped in his blanket, Rey with her elbows on her knees, each of them occasionally sipping their tea. Finally, Rey speaks, and when she does, all her steel and surety is gone. “Um … Ben?”

 

He's still not used to the sound of his name being spoken, not by a ghost trying to remind him of his past, but by a living, breathing girl who holds the key to the future. He closes his eyes just for a moment, letting the soft sensation of being named wash over him. “Yes?” he murmurs.

 

“What you said before … about me. That I could be awful. That I could be ...”

 

“Like me?” Ben opens his eyes to fix on Rey's. He's too tired to be bitter anymore and anyway, it's himself he is angry at in that moment. Seeing the way Rey's chin quivers slightly, he's stung with guilt that he could have caused this crisis in her, this rattling of her belief in her own innate goodness. “Don't … don't even listen to me, all right? I shouldn't have said those things. I was trying to hurt you …”

 

“Well, it worked,” Rey replies, a rough edge to her voice.

 

“I'm sorry,” Ben tells her in a whisper, not knowing what else to say.

 

“I know you are,” Rey says forthrightly. “I just want to know … do you really think that about me?”

 

“It … it doesn't matter what I think.” It's not exactly a lie, but it's definitely dodging the truth. “What do _you_ think?”

 

Rey drops her gaze, releases a slow and shaky breath, draws in another. Then she raises her eyes to his again, looking up from beneath golden-brown lashes. “I don't have to think about it,” she says, quiet and resigned. “I already know the truth.”

 

Ben swallows, punishing himself with the pain from his sore throat. Every word he pushes past his lips is a penance. “You're strong,” he says. “Stronger … stronger than I was. You might be angry, and you might be afraid, but you're not like me. You're not weak. You'll be okay. I promise.” He doesn't think, he just speaks, recklessly offering up admission of his own weakness and assurances of her strength in one breath. _Stupid idiot Ben. Why should she believe a word you say?_ But somehow, she seems to.

 

“Okay,” she says, right on the heels of his words, like all she needed was a quick reassurance to set her back on her feet, steer her back on course. “Thanks. Ben.”

 

“Um … you're welcome,” he says lamely in response. His face and ears are stinging and red, his fingers twisting around the mug of tea in his hands.

 

“It's not because you were weak, though,” Rey adds after a pause. “Not all of it, anyway. Not when it started.”

 

“You're wrong,” he informs her. “I was weak.”

 

She frowns at him. “Ben. You were a _baby_.”

 

“Babies are weak.”

 

“No,” Rey corrects him sharply. “They're innocent. You … you were innocent.” The color is high in her cheeks and her knuckles are white around her teacup.

 

Ben doesn't know what to say, what to do. All he knows is that he doesn't want to cry in front of her, not again. “Well, I didn't stay that way for long,” he says darkly. “As I think your friend Finn could tell you.”

 

Rey stands up fast, looking like she wants to hurl her teacup at his head, and Ben half-wishes she would. “Don't talk about Finn,” she whispers.

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because when I remember what you did to him, I hate you,” Rey snaps, “and I can't hate you. So stop it.”

 

“You can hate me if you want,” Ben says.

 

“No,” says Rey, the quick burst of anger draining out of her, leaving the color in her cheeks and the heat in her eyes. “I can't.”

 

_Right. Because hatred is the path to the Dark Side, and Master Luke wouldn't approve,_ Ben thinks. Apparently he's not too tired to be bitter after all. He says nothing.

 

“I'm going to bed now,” Rey says. She pauses at the doorway, looking back as though there's more she wants to say, but then she gathers herself, standing straighter. “Goodnight, Ben.”

 

“Goodnight, Rey,” Ben answers softly, and she slips out, the door closing behind her. Only then, when he's alone, does he realize that he forgot to thank her for the tea.

 

Alone is his natural state, has been for a long time. But suddenly, he can't stand it. It's like Rey took all the energy out of the room when she left and Ben can't just lie down and go to sleep when he's empty and small and scared like this. He needs a familiar face, a gruff voice, scolding and teasing. He needs Han Solo.

 

“Dad?” Ben whispers, his voice small and ragged in the empty room.

 

But the word just hangs there, the call unanswered. There is not so much as a flicker in the Force.

 

_No way. This can't be happening._ Ben tightens his grip on his cup of tea, trying to ground himself with the sensation of the solid object, warm in his hands. But it doesn't help; instead he finds himself on the verge of panic, his mouth going dry, his eyes burning, a tremor racking through his exhausted body.

 

“Dad, where are you?” he gasps out.

 

Nothing.

 

Ben hurls the half-empty mug of tea across the room, where it lands with a clang, spilling tea on the floor. Instead of making him feel better it makes him feel worse. He knows that he has to calm down. If he gets into a temper he will not help himself, and he certainly won't be able to focus enough to summon his father. He just didn't want to _have_ to summon him. Why, when he's been hounding his son day and night for weeks, will Han Solo not appear now? _He's probably angry at me for what I tried to do,_ Ben thinks, and that hurts, to think he's disappointed his father again, but he can deal with it. He can be at least as annoying as his father, surely; he can be just as foolishly persistent. Han Solo is out there. Ben just has to find him.

 

He can. And he will. If today can happen, anything can happen. When he woke up today, he was Kylo Ren. But it's Ben Solo who will lay down to sleep tonight, and it will be Ben Solo who rises tomorrow morning, and every morning after.

 

So he lies down, tries to get comfortable on the unfamiliar mattress. The blanket covers him well enough, he's not cold anymore. He's even getting used to the clothes. _This isn't so bad, right?_ He breathes in and out, in and out, and it takes a long time to achieve the level of calm he needs for this, but finally, he does achieve it.

 

Ben reaches out, floating in the Force … but he doesn't find his father. Instead, he is found. By someone who was reaching out at the same moment with the same desperation, the same need, the same painful hope.

 

_Ben?_ His mother calls him.

 

He goes completely still. Even his heart seems to stop beating, his blood to halt its flow, every atom of him arrested by the presence of the one person who he loves … and fears … most in the world.

 

_Ben,_ his mother repeats, with tenderness and more than a little stubborn impatience. _I_ _ **know**_ _that you can hear me._

 

Still, still, still. As if he's trying to hide from her, as if hiding would help him now.

 

_Don't shut me out again, Ben. Please,_ _**please,** _ _don't shut me out._

 

Her pain calls loud to his, and wakes him up.

 

_I won't,_ Ben answers. _I'm here …_ _I hear you._ And I won't ever shut you out again _,_ he wants to promise her, but he can't make himself think that far ahead. He can hardly think at all. All that he can do is feel, and what he feels is like being drenched in dazzling sunlight after years spent in a cave. It's overpowering, but there is grace in his weakness and lets it overpower him, lets himself feel and bend to the warmth and strength of his mother's presence, ethereal and intangible as it is.

 

Leia Organa lets out a breath she's been holding for fifteen years. _Oh, Ben. Oh, sweetheart._

 

Fifteen years of separation and heartache and sin, and somehow he is still his mother's sweetheart.

 

_How did you ... how did you find me?_

 

His mother laughs with both sadness and joy. _Honey, do you think I ever really lost you? You've always been in my heart, on my mind._

 

He wants to tell her that she has always been in his, as well, but all that that would do is remind the both of them that he has spent of half of his life ignoring, rejecting, and betraying her. So he doesn't say it.

 

_What happened, Ben?_ his mother is asking him now. _I felt something … Where are you?_

 

Her hope and her apprehension shames him. She so badly wants to believe that it's true, that he's returned to the light, but he's hurt her and let her down for so long and so many times that she doesn't dare trust her feelings, can't even trust what the Force is telling her, until she hears him say it himself.

 

_I'm ... I'm on the Falcon,_ Ben tells her. _With Chewie. And Rey. She found your brother, and she's going to bring him back to you._ He knows what that means to his mother, he wants her to know it. He feels the surge of her joy at the news, but she is still anxious, still not at peace.

 

_What about you? Are you hurt, Ben? Are you all right?_

 

He can feel his mother's love, her concern, and he can also feel her underlying worry: that he's been taken by force, that he's not here as a repentant son, but as a prisoner.

 

_I ..._ Well, he wouldn't describe himself as “all right,” and there's no point in lying to his mother even if he wanted to. He wants to be done with lies and lying. All that he can do is put the worst of her fears to rest.

 

_I'm not hurt,_ he assures her. _I'm here of my own free will._ He pauses. _Are_ _ **you**_ _all right?_

 

His mother's relief and gladness has the warmth of several suns. _Yes, Ben._ _I am now_.

 

_Good._ Ben has run out of things to say. In the stillness, in the silence, grief and guilt come back to bite at Ben, and his mother feels it too.

 

_Don't think about that right now,_ she thinks at him, gently.

 

But he can't not think about it. _Dad's dead,_ Ben thinks, a hollow knocking in his chest. The flame in his heart that had sustained him earlier is guttering out now. _I killed him._

 

A hard pause. _I know._

 

_You can't possibly ever forgive me._ He hands her his deepest fears. She promptly blasts them to smithereens.

 

_Don't tell me what I can't do, Ben Solo. I **made** you. I'll forgive you for whatever I damn well want to forgive you for. And your father ... he would have forgiven you, too. _

 

Through all the agony, Ben can't help but smile. _He already did._

 

_You mean ..._ his mother doesn't finish the thought. She already knows the answer. _I knew that he could do it,_ she says, more to herself than to him. _And I knew that you could too, sweetheart._

 

Ben is amazed, astounded by the depth of his mother's faith in him. He wishes he could deserve that faith.

 

He wishes he could share it.

 

_You can tell me all about it,_ she says next, _when you get home._

 

Home. _Do I still have one?_

 

_As long as there's breath in my body, Ben Solo, you will always have a home._

 

He has no words, not even any thoughts, only a solitary tear trickling warm down his cold cheek, stinging when it gets to the cut on his lip _. Mom ..._

 

_I'm here, Ben. It's okay. You're safe. You're with me._

 

Peace falls between them, a soothing quiet with no urge, no need to try and fill it. But it can't last forever. Ben can sense that his mother doesn't want to let him go. He doesn't want to let her go, either. But the connection between them is fading; his mother's not as practiced at this as he is, can't maintain the communication much longer. He could do it, probably, if he weren't so tired. But he is, tired and overwhelmed and overcome, and sleep drags insistently at him, tenderly calling his name. He's too exhausted now even to feel any shame, too exhausted to remember why he doesn't deserve to ask her for anything. So, like a child, he just asks for what he needs, and knows that it will be given.

 

_Will you …_ he asks his mother, _could you stay just a little while longer? Until I fall asleep?_

 

_Of course I will._

 

And she does. He can feel her surrounding him, almost like an embrace, and the last thing he hears before sleep claims him is his mother's voice.

 

_Goodnight, sweetheart. I'll see you soon._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (crawls out of suffering-cave to update this story) 
> 
> finally being able to post this one feels so good. i feel like a weight has been lifted off me tbh. it's been a hard month (and a half? has it really been that long? geez) but FINALLY my awful brain let me have 1 good thing. and Ben got to have some good things too :D (As Han would say, "don't everybody thank me at once.") 
> 
> as always, i love you guys, hope you enjoy this chapter, and your feedback sustains me <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not like he expected this to be easy, it's not like he really thought all the broken pieces would suddenly fly back into place just because he left Snoke behind. He's still lost now, just not maybe as lost as before. But Chewie was right. At least he's not alone.

They coast into the spaceport on fumes, an ominous rattle coming from somewhere deep in the Falcon's insides. Ben sleeps pretty much the entire way there; not the troubled, nightmare-plagued sleep he's come to expect, but a deep, dreamless rest that lasts and lasts, wrapping him up safely and completely.

Every so often, he surfaces from the dark ocean of sleep. In these few moments of awareness, he thinks he should try to get up and go find some way to make himself useful. Instead, he pulls his blanket back over his head and lets sleep take him down again. What can he do? It's not like he can trust himself to fly the Falcon. If he leaves his bunk, he'll only be in Chewie's way.

And there's Rey to consider.

Only a day or so ago he'd been willing to die at her hand, and she'd been ready to kill him. Now, they're allies. They've shared a dream, secrets, and a cup of tea, but that doesn't change the weirdness of their situation. In fact, it just intensifies that weirdness. Ben just doesn't know what to expect from Rey from one moment to the next. All he knows for certain is that when she looks at him, she'll fix him with that scavenger stare: the one that makes him feel like he's being taken apart and then put back together in an order he's not familiar with.

Sleep is a refuge; sleep is safe. He's been so tired for so long now … he'd forgotten it was possible to sleep this soundly. He'd forgotten what it was like to feel better in the morning instead of worse, to wake up not weary at the thought of fighting through another painful day: to anticipate the occurrence of good things, rather than bad ones.

Still, there is a part of him that never wants to leave his bunk, but when he feels the Falcon land and power down, Ben knows he can't hide any longer. With a groan, he throws off his blankets, rubs his eyes, and shambles out into the corridor, following the low sounds of Rey's and Chewie's voices to the kitchen. They're talking shop: discussing what parts and supplies they need, how much they're going to cost, how long the repairs are going to take. Ben drags a hand through his messy hair, takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and joins them.

Chewie and Rey pause to look at him, and Ben looks at the ground, his hands in his pockets. His father's pockets, he remembers, in the fog of the freshly-woken.

“Good morning,” he mumbles.

“Afternoon, technically,” Rey says, but she says it with a hint of a smile, so Ben allows himself to relax. Chewie gets up and grabs his shoulder, steering him to the seat across the dining nook from Rey.

“Chewie … it's okay, I remember where stuff is, you don't have to ...”

Chewie isn't having any of that. There's a cup of caf and a plate of hot food in front of Ben before he can even think about protesting further. Chewie then lovingly bullies Rey into taking a second helping. While Chewie is looking the other way, Ben's gaze locks with Rey's. When she rolls her eyes, Ben can't suppress a slight smirk in response. There's a frail but undeniable glow of pleasure in him, at having a conversation with Rey without any words, but he's unsure and embarrassed, flushing red and abruptly returning his attention back to his breakfast … lunch … whatever.

Ben doesn't speak until he's finished his food and his cup of caf. He's not used to it - the Supreme Leader didn't look fondly on his Knights indulging in any kind of stimulant – but he's grateful for it right now. It makes his brain feel less fuzzy and more focused, even if it does leave his body buzzing with a restless energy. _Dad always did used to complain about Chewie making caf too strong._ And it gives his mouth something to do, removing the pressure to talk when he has no idea what to say. When he's done he catches himself drumming his fingertips on the rim of the mug and on the tabletop, bouncing his bare feet on the floor. “So … when are we leaving?” he asks, in an attempt to ease his anxiety. It backfires immediately.

“Oh … um ...” Rey looks surprised, almost to the point of alarm. “You mean you want to go too?”

Ben bites his lip. The split has mostly healed while he's been sleeping, but there's still a small flare of pain that sharpens his thoughts. _Of course she doesn't want you to go along; she was probably looking forward to getting away from you._ Just because it makes sense doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. It makes him feel sad and small and twisted-up inside and just … bad. Ben recognizes the feeling. It's just like when he was a kid, whenever he would watch his dad leaving home and wonder what he had done to deserve it: wondering why, yet again, he was being left behind.

“We had just thought that you might want to stay with the ship,” Rey is saying now.

“Well, I don't. I want to go.”

Chewie, busy cleaning up after breakfast, isn't paying attention, but Rey is studying Ben attentively, with a look that puts him on edge. She looks at him like he's a combustible object, which makes him feel like a combustible object. And what he feels, he tends to act on.

“Are you sure that's a good idea?” Rey asks him.

“I'm not sure I care if it's a good idea or not.” Ben's voice is as quiet as hers, but his tone has heated, sharpened, and Rey's hands, resting on the table, clench reflexively in response to it. This is also the moment when Chewie decides to start paying attention, wanting to know what the problem is.

Ben turns to Chewie and opens his mouth to speak. When he realizes that what's about to do is ask permission … it fills him with a sudden flash of anger at himself. _I can make my own decisions now. I'm not Snoke's puppet anymore and I won't be a puppet to anyone else again. I can go wherever the hell I want._ So he's decided to go, he's made up his mind, but instead of just saying that, calmly and rationally, he starts to combust.

“Are you going to try and stop me?” Ben demands of Rey, zeroing in on her with what is undoubtedly an unpleasant look on his face and an implicit threat in his voice.

Chewie growls, scolding Ben for his rudeness, but Rey doesn't so much as flinch.

“No,” she says coolly, her keen eyes piercing Ben's until his spine prickles. “I just thought someone should mention it. You're not exactly inconspicuous, you know.”

Almost immediately, Ben's anger melts to shame. _What's_ _ **wrong**_ _with me?_ He's the one who reached out to her, he's the one who insisted they weren't enemies: now the burden of proof is on him. Why is he trying to pick a fight with Rey, just when they'd started making peace? Is he really that ruined? Is violence and cruelty really all he knows, all he's capable of?

That can't be true. He won't let it be true.

He shakes his head and breathes in quick and sharp and imagines that he's flipping a switch somewhere inside himself: _Kylo Ren off, Ben Solo on._ It's not that simple, not even close – Kylo is Ben and Ben is Kylo and there's no escaping that – but if he cuts himself in half mentally like this, maybe it will make subduing the darker parts of himself easier. Or even possible.

He breathes and starts over.

"And Chewie's inconspicuous?” Ben says in a much softer, more measured but still sarcastic voice. “No offense, Chewie."

Chewie grumbles and shakes his head, taking none. The tension that had crept into the air like the crackle before lightning has dissipated now. Rey is still looking at Ben, seeming confused, but words of explanation or apology stick in Ben's throat. All he has to do is tell the truth: _I don't want to be alone._ It's nothing Chewie and Rey don't already know, nothing they wouldn't understand. But he still can't make himself say it. He's getting a little bit tired of ripping all these old wounds open and bleeding in front of their eyes.

But this time, he doesn't have to.

There is another silent conversation taking place; Rey sees the pleading, the angry hurt in Ben's eyes, and she recognizes it. Her expression clears like a cloud passing over a sun and away. “Well, I'm ready to leave whenever you two are,” she announces, slapping the table and pushing back her chair.

Ben springs up and leaves the kitchen fast, both to get ready and to get away from the discomfort he's created in his wake. Even though he's gotten his way, he's not exactly happy about it … there's a lingering feeling of guilt and unease over snapping at Rey, and he's nervous and jittery thanks to the caf. _I'll make it up to her,_ he thinks heavily, _somehow._ But right this second, he can't worry about that. There are immediate problems to occupy his troubled mind. Sometime while he was asleep, his own clothes were cleaned and left folded on the bunk opposite his, but he can't wear them outside the ship. Rey's right; Ben's not inconspicuous. He's too big and awkwardly built to escape notice, and swathing himself in those comforting, familiar layers of black won't help. He's almost positive that the Supreme Leader hasn't yet put out a bounty on him or given out his description; it wouldn't be wise to reveal to the galaxy that Kylo Ren has turned traitor. Especially not if the Supreme Leader still hopes – and Ben is certain that he does – to get to Rey through him, and Luke Skywalker too. The thought comes over him like a chill and he grits his teeth and shakes it off, digging his fingernails into his palms. _Snoke is far away. He can't hurt you here. You're safe, Rey's safe, Chewie's safe. You're going home. Everything is going to be fine._

Still, it would be foolish not to take some precautions with regards to his appearance. Ben dresses in his own black trousers, but keeps on his father's shirt, though it's wrinkled from being slept in. He dons his own gloves and boots. After digging around in one of the ship's lockers, he finds a cracked old brown jacket that smells of oil and smoke, as well as a mangy red scarf, which he wraps around his neck to hide the prowling length of his scar. The jacket is a little snug, but he feels more himself, more secure with the extra coverage it provides. Snagging a length of bandage from the medkit, he secures it across his face over the scar and knots it behind his head. The bandage is hot and itchy and makes him feel like an idiot, but it will have to do. This is an Outer Rim spaceport, after all. There are bound to be plenty of pirates here who look like they've been roughed up, sporting various fresh injuries; he will only be one of many. Finally, he finds some string and ties his hair up and back, since he still hasn't managed to find a hairbrush.

When he heads out to the exit ramp, Chewie and Rey are waiting. Rey's got on a jacket of light gray wool, a makeshift metal staff strapped across her back, and a blaster on her hip. Chewie has a rucksack and a blaster, and a quizzical look on his face. Under the weight of their eyes, Ben reaches up to mess with his hair, remembers it's pulled back, and stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets instead.

"What?" he asks them both, defensive.

Rey cocks her head to study him. "What happened to your face?" she asks innocently.

"Very funny," Ben grumbles, reddening. "It's a disguise."

Rey's nose and the corners of her eyes crinkle, her lips pressing together with suppressed laughter. Chewie doesn't even bother trying to hide his amusement, just barks merrily and pulls Ben into a rough one-armed hug.

"You did say you wanted me to be inconspicuous," Ben points out, and even though he's still flushed with embarrassment, the corners of his mouth are tipping up as well, a hint of warmth blooming in his chest and radiating out.

"I know," Rey says, choking on a giggle. She clears her throat and composes herself, tucking a loose curl of hair behind her ear. "I'm sorry. But, um, if you're going for inconspicuous, you might want to leave that here." She gestures to his side. Ben glances down and realizes that he's strapped his lightsaber to his belt.

As he removes the weapon and holds it in his hand, Ben feels the mirth abandon him, panic slashing into its place, making it difficult for him to breathe. He doesn't like the thought of being without his lightsaber. Yes, it's clumsy in its construction, erratic in its performance, unstable by its nature. And yes, he killed his father with it, and a lot of other people who didn't need to die. But it's still _his,_ a part of him, something he built and then rebuilt all by himself. It has been with him through everything. The thought of being without it makes him feel naked. But with Rey's eyes on him, he sets it aside, and makes an effort not to look at it, to pretend not to care.

Chewie rumbles and presses a holster and a blaster into Ben's hand.

"I don't need this," Ben tells him.

Chewie points out that in a place like this, an unarmed person is more conspicuous than an armed one. Well, he definitely has a point there. Ben was thinking that if a problem arose, he could just use the Force to deal with it, but obviously that would attract plenty of unwanted attention, and he can't just kill his way out of it this time. He hasn't been a civilian since he was a child … he can't remember having to think like one. He's been so isolated, so insulated in the well-oiled war machine of the First Order that he's forgotten much of what the real world is like. But he's about to find out.

With Chewie in the lead, the three of them leave the Falcon and step out into the atmosphere of the unfamiliar planet. Ben blinks in the pale sunlight, pausing as his ears fill with the activity and noise of the spaceport: people of many and varied species milling around, the clatter of tools, the hiss of exhaust and steam, curses and crude jokes in every language he knows and some he doesn't. Rey has paused to take it in as well, looking all around with her eyes wide and bright and curious. Only her tight grip on the strap across her chest, preparing to get to her staff if she needs it, betrays her nervousness. But the next moment she's all business again, briskly trailing Chewie through the docking bay, and Ben picks up his feet and follows closely.

The docking bay opens up to a modest, crowded market town much like any other on a planet this far from the Core systems. The air is warm and dry, and what land can be glimpsed beyond the clustered grayish buildings is a similarly grayish plain scattered with brush and scrub and the occasional twisted tree. Their business lies here, in the tangle of tents and storefronts set up in long and winding aisles.

Chewie studies their surroundings with an expert eye, grunts in approval, and nudges Ben and Rey into a nearby alcove. There he divides the money among the three of them, and hands Rey a datapad with the list of parts they need.

“You want me to get these?” Rey asks, uncertainty and hope mingling in her voice and in her eyes.

Chewie tells Rey that he trusts her with the task, and Rey lights up like a sunrise, her smile sweet and proud, her joy so strong that Ben can feel it licking at his edges, like he's standing too close to a fire.

He doesn't want to lose that feeling, so when Chewie starts heading one way and Rey the other, Ben panics for a moment and then chooses to follow Rey.

“I think I'd better come with you,” he says in response to her furrowed brow. “For protection.”

Her brow furrows further. “I can handle my-...”

“Who said it was for _your_ protection?” Ben shoots back, raising an eyebrow.

This time Rey's laugh is quick in coming, and she doesn't cut it off halfway through. “All right, I'll keep you safe.”

Grinning, Ben matches his stride to Rey's and they set off.

In less than minute, Rey's struck up a conversation with an elderly Sullustan selling pottery, and obtained the name and directions to the nearest dealer who will have the parts they need, in exchange for a small clay pot. It's odd how she can be so brutally practical, and still have such vivid daydreams. Actually, it's not odd at all; both of those were qualities she had carefully cultivated during her years on Jakku, without which she would not have survived those years. As they make their way down the winding aisle, Ben wonders what Rey daydreams about now that she's left that desert junkyard, now that her destiny has changed.

 _None of your business,_ he chides himself, even as another part of his mind is telling him that it is his business, and no one's business but his. This way lies more darkness, this way lies danger: and, at the end of the long, painful, and bloody road, despair. Ben turns away from it and focuses on the busy, noisy, dirty, bright world around him. At the farthest end of the market, next to the beginning of the barren brushland, they reach their destination. It's a ramshackle shop with a sign proclaiming there are no better prices on hyperdrives in this star system. Ben just hopes that's true … the sooner they're off this planet the better. The uncertainty of the future is still better than what will happen to them if they fall into the clutches of the First Order.

They step into the shade of the shop, overflowing with scrap metal and coils of wire and wrenches, and manned only by a droid so primitive it doesn't even turn to acknowledge the arrival of customers, much less speak. But they don't have to wait long before a spindly thin, green-skinned alien wearing more engine grease than clothing steps out from behind a curtain, eyeing the two of them skeptically.

“Are you Klunxin?” Rey asks.

“The one and only.” The alien's voice is as thin and brittle as his numerous limbs. “What's your business today?”

Rey details the damage to the ship and pulls up the list of parts they need, while Klunxin nods along and makes an occasional grunt of acknowledgment. Ben can sense that Rey is ready to pounce like a sand panther to get the best deal. He already knows that she has spent her entire life on the wrong end of bargains, and now that she's free, she seems determined to make sure she comes out on top.

Klunxin, however, seems just as determined to ensure just the opposite, and the more he talks, the more incensed Rey becomes.

"Two hundred? Just for some power converters? That's absolutely ridiculous," she says in a haughty tone. "We might as well just buy a new ship!"

"Well then, maybe that's what you ought to do, little bit," Klunxkin says lazily, eying the two of them from under the wide brim of his greasy hat. "That's my asking price, and I'm not changing it for the sake of some entitled off-worlders. And I can guarantee you that no one else around here carries parts for a YT model that old. Like it or not, you're stuck with me."

Ben rests his hand on his blaster.

"Easy, buddy," the dealer says, unconcerned as he pats the blaster on his own emaciated hip. "I'm willing to bet I'm a faster draw."

Before Ben can give into his impulse to pick up Klunxin by the neck and throw him into one of his own engines, Rey speaks up.

"Are you really going to try and cheat us?" she snaps.

"Call it what you want, little bit, but you won't find a better deal anywhere on this planet," Klunxin drawls, sounding amused by Rey and looking utterly unimpressed by Ben.

Rey just sighs, shakes her head, and then stares hard at Klunxin. Ben can feel the Force surging around Rey, so strong that it makes him catch his breath. He doesn't try to stop her. He wants to see what she'll do, and he wants to watch her do it.

"You will give us the parts we require – all of them – for fifty," Rey says slowly, deliberately.

Klunxin goes dead behind the eyes, and his whole body stiffens as he stands at attention. "I will give you the parts for fifty," he repeats flatly.

"You will not tell anyone that anyone that you saw either of us.”

"I will not tell anyone that I saw either of you."

The Force surges again as Rey adds "And you will _not_ try to cheat people again."

"And I will not try to cheat people again."

Rey's nod is approving, her smile a sharpened and gleaming knife. "Good. I'm glad we understand each other. Have those parts delivered to Docking Bay 95 within the hour."

Klunxin nods puppet-like, and shambles back into the interior of his shop with the jerky movements of a drugged man.

“A pleasure doing business with you,” Rey says under her breath, the lethal smile lingering on her lips. Then, she turns around and leaves the shop, Ben following behind her like a shadow.

"Do you think your master would have approved of that?" he says, bending in close to drop the words in her ear.

Rey halts and turns to face him, frowning slightly. Any hesitation or embarrassment she might have felt leaves her features quickly, and she just looks back up at him, clear-eyed and serene.

"Master Luke's not here," she says pertly.

“That's fortunate,” Ben mutters, before he can stop himself.

For a second, he thinks he's started a fight without even wanting to. The jab of anger Rey feels has weight to it, and punch behind it, and if she wanted to, she could hurt him with it. Instead, she controls the feeling, rather than letting it control her as he probably would. She draws her breath in in a huff and half-turns from him, casting a dejected profile in the pale sunlight.

“I thought it was skillful,” Ben says lamely. “You, um … you got us a really good deal.”

“I just don't like being cheated,” Rey answers, her eyes half-closed, her shoulders braced, her hands in fists at her sides. “That's all.”

“I know.” Ben feels bad again now, like some poisonous thing, something that hurts everything it touches because that's just the way it is, regardless of intention. He'd only been teasing her … or trying to. But instead he's stirred up hurt in her again. _Good job, Ben. Just wonderful._ He casts about clumsily for some way to make it better.

“Want to get food?” he blurts.

Rey looks up at him slowly, her brown eyes suspiciously shiny. “Yeah,” she says at last. “Yeah, I would.”

 

The food market turns out to be the perfect remedy to Rey's doldrums. Chewie gave them both plenty of money, and since Rey got them a "deal" on the parts, there's more than enough left to spend on provisions. Ben sees the way Rey looks at the variety of food, knowing that she's probably never seen most of it before. And he's been living mostly on combat rations for years, and the sight of fresh fruit and the smell of fresh-baked bread is just too much to resist.

"Don't you think we might be getting too much?" Rey asks dubiously, hoisting a bag of produce over her shoulder.

"We'll need food for the trip to pick up your master,” Ben points out. “And I eat a lot.” He hands over payment to a toothless, grinning butcher and accepts an enormous slab of meat wrapped in white paper for Chewie.

"Okay,” Rey says, and the relief in her voice is palpable. Obviously, she's not used to not having to worry about where her next meal is coming from; she just wanted reassurance. “Oh, look! Fresh tea leaves. I'm going to check those out.”

“Sure,” Ben says, as something bright catches his eye from a stall across the way. “I'll be right over here.”

He wanders to the stall, which stocks imported packaged foods, the kind that get shipped all across the galaxy: snacks, junky items with an infinite shelf life, ideal for long stretches in space. Ben picks up a shiny silver package, bold lettering in a childish font, the bright colors of the packaging matching the candies inside. Not quite understanding why, Ben sets the package down on the counter.

“Will that be all for you today, dearie?” says the wizened old Toydarian lady hovering behind the counter.

“Actually ...” Ben says, with a quick glance across the aisle at Rey. She's happily smelling tea leaves. “Make that two.”

It was already late afternoon when they had set out, and the dim disc of the sun is sinking towards the gray horizon when Rey and Ben start heading back to the Falcon. Shouldering his burdens, Ben digs out his bag of candy and tears it open. He puts one of the fruit-flavored candies into his mouth, knowing it's not going to taste as good as he remembers … but he's proven wrong. His senses flood with input from his memory and he stops walking. For a moment, he forgets who he is and where he is and what he's done. Forgets how far from home he is and how much work lies ahead of him. For just a moment, all that he knows is a sweetness so strong, it sets tears in his eyes, and he doesn't understand why happiness and sadness taste and feel so much the same.

“What're you eating?” Rey asks him curiously.

Ben swallows hard, and blinks back the embarrassing emotion. “Um … just some candy.”

“Oh.” Rey pauses. “There's no nutritional value in that," she says wistfully.

Ben pulls out the second bag of candy, feeling himself start to smirk. "Guess you don't want this, then."

Rey's eyes widen. "For … for me?"

“Yeah.”

Rey reaches out and takes the bag carefully, her calloused fingers brushing his gloved ones before pulling away fast like she's afraid he's going to rescind his offer.

"That was ... nice of you," she says, her words blurred by surprise, her gaze lingering on his face, like she's trying – and failing – to make sense of him.

“I can be nice,” Ben murmurs. This comes as a surprise to him too.

Rey looks down at the bag in her hands, crinkles the wrapping between her fingers, making a study of the shiny material. She hesitates to tear it open, picking at the edges instead.

“You've never tasted sweets before,” Ben blurts. It is not a question. It's knowledge that he has of her, knowledge that he has no right too, knowledge that he stole when he was supposed to be digging in her mind for the location of the droid. Instead, he came away drenched in the wistful sadness of a girl who hadn't lived, who only dreamed about things she saw in salvaged holonovels. There was no sweetness in her life except what she carried in her own head, in her own heart.

The second after he's said it, Ben wonders if he should have. He doesn't know how to _be_ around her, around anyone really, but with Rey … what is he supposed to do? They're not friends, but they can't be strangers either. Is he supposed to pretend that he doesn't know the sadness sleeping in her bones? That he hasn't tasted her blood in his mouth and felt her tears trembling on his own eyelashes? And what about her? Is she supposed to pretend that her heart hasn't wrenched and rattled with his deepest fears, that she hasn't felt the slices and burns in his skin?

“This was always your favorite kind,” Rey answers with her own knowledge of him, deciding the matter. “Your mother used to bring it home to you some nights, when she'd been a long time at work. When she wasn't watching, you'd eat the whole bag at once and then you wouldn't be able to fall asleep. And one time you threw up, and it was rainbow ...”

“Okay, okay,” Ben grumbles. “Are you going to try it or not?”

Rey grins and rips into the bag. She shudders at the first taste of candy; as if she's been hit by something. Her eyes flutter shut and she stands still in the pale, muted pink of this drab planet's sunset, humming with a quiet energy that only a Force-user could detect.

“Do you like it?” Ben asks her.

“No, I _love_ it,” Rey says. “I … thanks.” She seems happy, she feels happy, she _is_ happy. But in spite of that, there is something sad about her. And he doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want to know it, it's an accident but it still happens.

Rey's thinking _I wish Finn were here._

“Well, um … let's not keep Chewie waiting any longer,” Ben says hastily, and walks off into the fast-gathering darkness so fast that Rey scrambles to catch up with him.

Ben knows deep down that he can never really give back to Rey what he took away on Starkiller Base. Offering her some candy is almost insulting in the wake of the pain he's inflicted on her in the past. Was it a mistake to think that they could be friends, when he left Finn, her real friend, for dead?

 _But you did make her happy,_ he argues with himself. _You made Rey smile. That's something, isn't it? That means something, doesn't it?_

Maybe it does, and maybe it doesn't, but he can't afford to think about it right now, to start weighing his good deeds against his bad ones. He can't afford to linger in any moment for too long, can't give his mind time to rest because if it rests it wanders if it wanders, it always ends up back where it started: alone, calling for his father and receiving only silence.

He will try again tonight. In the meantime, he can't let himself falter for a moment, can't let himself stop or he might never start moving again.

 

Back at the Falcon, Chewie's already gathered up the parts Rey had delivered and started his work. He takes a quick break to listen to Rey's (slightly abridged) relation of their shopping trip, and to exclaim over their purchases. (The fresh meat is a hit, as Ben knew it would be, and earns him another crushing hug.) Once they've put the stuff away, they join Chewie and get down to the business of making the Falcon fly again.

It's too crowded in the pit for all three of them and Chewie and Rey know their way around the Falcon's insides better than Ben does … it's been a long time. So for now, Ben sits on the edge of the pit like he used to when he was little, and hands tools down to Chewie and Rey as required. This is dull and doesn't occupy his mind sufficiently, so rather than simply handing tools down and back up, he uses the Force to float a wrench down and waits for them to notice.

“Show-off!” Rey yells. But after that, she starts floating the tools back up to him when she's done with them.

They work through the night, stopping every so often for water and food. It's close to sunrise before Chewie calls it quits, saying that if things go well tomorrow, they ought to be in shape to leave here in another day. Rey's happy about this, beaming from under the grease on her face, and Ben pretends to be, but inside he's tangled into a thorny bramble of anxiety. There's a scratching inside of him, like an animal pawing the ground, posturing with no idea of its next move. If every day could be like the best parts of today, he thinks he might not ever want to leave here. What waits beyond this backwater planet frightens him. What awaits him is Luke Skywalker, and his mother, and the Resistance, and ... eventually, inevitably … _Snoke._

Cleaned up, dressed for sleep and alone in his bunk, Ben shakes his head fiercely, trying to rid himself of thoughts of the future. He hears his father's voice, in memory: _you're doing great, kid!_ But it's not enough. He could be doing better, he knows he could be. And he needs to hear those words in person, right from the source.

Ben sits up cross-legged on his bunk and tries to relax, to breathe, to control his thoughts and empty himself of fear and doubt and tension, to leave room for the Force to work with him and lead him where he needs to go.

Apparently, the Force wants him to sleep. All that he's managed to do is make his eyelids heavier when there's a knock at his door, startling him out anything resembling calm.

"Wh-what?"

"Can I come in?" Rey asks.

"Fine," Ben says, and the door's already slid open when he remembers that he's not wearing a shirt. It's too late to do anything about it ... Rey steps into the room holding a mug of tea in each hand, and if he grabs for his shirt now it'll just be obvious that he's insecure.

Rey's recently left the shower, and the scent of soap accompanies her, her still-damp hair tied up in a knot on top of her head. She hands him his mug, sits down on the bunk opposite his and folds her legs beneath her, taking a sip of her own tea.

The warmth of the mug in his hands is soothing, and Ben sips the sweet, hot liquid to steady his nerves.

“How do you like it?” Rey inquires. “It's one of the blends I got at the market today.”

“It's good,” he allows. “What's in it?”

“Hmmm … I'm not sure. Some local herbs, I think."

“Clever. You could poison me and make it look like an accident.”

“But if I poison you,” Rey quips, “then who'll buy me candy?”

Ben snorts, heat and color creeping into his cheeks. “I'm pretty sure that Chewie would buy you your own planet if he could.”

“I don't think I would want my own planet,” says Rey, thoughtfully. “It would be too …”

“ … lonely,” Ben finishes.

“Right.”

There's a short silence.

"Were you meditating just now?" Rey asks, and he can feel her eyes hesitating over the scars that mark his chest and stomach and arms. They all seem to be hurting again in that moment. _She knows,_ he thinks with discomfort and humiliation creeping in his chest, s _he knows how many of these are self-inflicted._ And every mark he didn't carve into his own skin is just a reminder of past weaknesses and failures. Marking him for the coward the weakling the failure that he is …

_No, don't think like that, don't think at all, just breathe Ben just breathe and answer her_

“I … sort of. Not really.”

"I didn't mean to bother you," Rey is saying now, looking uncertain in her perch, like she's on the verge of getting up and leaving. Oddly, he doesn't want her to leave.

"You ... you didn't bother me," Ben says, shaking his head. "Thank you for the tea."

"Oh, you're welcome.” More silence, more sipping of tea. Then "I wish I could meditate," Rey remarks quickly, as if she's been building up to saying this very thing.

"You can't?" Ben is skeptical. She's an absolute prodigy with the Force, and meditation is a child's trick.

Rey shrugs. "I haven't gotten the hang of it yet. I suppose it doesn't come naturally to me."

"I could ..." Ben breaks his sentence off and looks down into the dark whirlpool of his tea.

"... teach me?" Rey fills in. "Would you?"

Ben looks back up sharply, startled. Rey's eyes are bright and eager, with only a hint of reluctance. And if she's decided to ignore her own reluctance, then what right has he to bring it up?

"Really?"

"Sure," Rey says. "Why not? I'd like to practice.  Not tonight though … I'm really sleepy. And I can see that you are, too."

Ben nods, a little bit stunned from everything that's happened today. It's all settling on him now, and he's too tired to make sense of it. “I … okay. Sometime. Sure. Good night, Rey.”

“Good morning, more like, Ben,” she points out, and, taking her empty mug and his, leaves the room with a huge yawn.

Whatever local herbs were in that tea, they definitely worked on him. He's so sleepy that the idea of trying to contact his father now has to be set aside. _Tomorrow,_ he thinks, _I'll try again tomorrow. Are you listening, Dad? Do you hear me at all? I'm trying, Dad. Dad, Obi-Wan, Grandfather … I'm really trying. If it's not enough, then tell me. Let me know. But don't leave me … don't just leave me alone with all of this …_

He's asleep before he can properly finish the thought, and sleep, once more, proves merciful.

 

 

The next day is a sharp contrast of highs and lows.

The highs are things like helping with the repairs, making himself useful, making Chewie laugh and Rey grin without even trying, just by making a wry observation every now and then, just by being _himself._ The highs are catching a glimpse of colorful candy wrappers in Rey's pocket, and helping Chewie cook dinner, and one time when he realizes that his face hurts and it hurts because he's smiling, and finding it hard to stop.

The lows are mostly internal. No matter what he does, how thoroughly he throws himself into his work to distract himself, stray thoughts always manage to crawl across his mind and shed darkness in their wake. He's mending a power conduit when the sight of his own gloved hands takes him back to times and places he doesn't want to be, brings up wave after wave of memories of times he wielded weapons instead of tools, times he destroyed instead of fixing things. He has to stop working for a few minutes, close his eyes and rest his forehead against the cool wall and try to bring himself back to the moment he's in now. Smacking himself in the neck a few times while Chewie and Rey aren't looking seems to do the trick … at least for the moment. He doesn't know what he's going to do, how he's going to manage his past for the rest of his future. He's trying to keep his hands as busy as possible and spend every available moment asleep.

Tonight, though, sleep is not a comfort after all.

Another failed attempt to reach to reach his father leaves Ben in shambles, without enough energy to even cry. The silence that greets him whenever he asks for Han Solo is deafening, ringing in his ears like he's been shaken. It's like he's running up against a wall, hurling himself into it over and over, but it won't give and he's losing strength. And he can't be sure, of course, but he has the sneaking suspicion that he's the one who built the wall, that it's his fault somehow. The only other possibility, he reasons, is that his father is trying to keep him away, and when that thought occurs to him Ben falls back into his bunk, struggling to control his breathing. He wants to lash out, he _needs_ to lash out, break something, hurt someone … hurt himself, his only remaining enemy who is close at hand.

Eventually, he does fall asleep ... and headlong into nightmares.

He's gone blind, he thinks at first. His world is utter darkness, but he can hear, and his ears are full of the cold rattle of labored breath that doesn't sound like it could come from any human being.

It takes him a few moments to recognize it: the deep and chilling rasp of an artificial respirator.

It takes him another few stuttering heartbeats to recognize that the mechanical breathing is his own. His eyesight returns a moment later, and when he catches sight of his reflection in a mirror he stumbles back fearfully, because it's _not_ his reflection.

The face looking emotionless back at Ben is the face of Darth Vader.

The mask is as twisted and dented as it was when he owned it. It's too tight, it feels like it's crushing his skull, and Ben panics, his breath guttering out of the respirator as he grabs the mask and wrenches at it, struggling to free himself from it …

… when he rips it off and throws it, it lands on a catwalk with a hollow clang.

Ben stares down into the abyss that is the core of Starkiller Base. A grim red light suffuses everything, laying out shadows in smoky relief. Feeling sick and dizzy, Ben looks up, and meets Han Solo's eyes.

“Dad,” Ben gasps out, and then he's moving: half-running, half-stumbling to where his father stands. Han Solo doesn't move, except for the wind ruffling his gray hair. Ben stops just short of his father, reaches out without thinking to grab his hand. “Dad, you're here … can we go now? Can we please go home now?”

His father squeezes his hand and smiles, and somehow that smile is the worst thing Ben has ever seen.

“Too late, kid,” Han Solo whispers, and it's only then that Ben sees his father is wounded, is dying, a smoking hole in his chest; he smells of charred skin and burnt blood, and he sways on his feet.

This time when his father falls, Ben reaches out to catch him, crumpling to his knees on the catwalk with his father in his arms.

“No, Dad, no, please, no … I'm sorry, I'm sorry, don't, don't leave me,” he babbles in a panic.

His father reaches up with a shaking hand to brush his son's cheek, his fingertips resting there.

“My … boy ...” he murmurs, but his voice isn't his voice; it's rumbling and wrong, and his fingers are cold and clammy and they aren't just resting on Ben's face anymore, they're digging in, piercing, **hurting** …

Ben's eyes sting and water with pain and when they're clear again, Supreme Leader Snoke is lying where Han Solo used to be, jabbing his cold fingers into Ben's skin.

“You left me,” the Supreme Leader hisses, and rips Ben's scar wide open.

It's agony, a hundred times worse than it worse even when the wound was inflicted. Ben screams and screams; he wrenches himself free and holds his face in his hands but he's awash in blood, drowning in it, choking on it, all he can see all he can smell is red and all he can hear is Snoke laughing at him …

… until the laughter fades out and disappears and melts into the softest sweetest singing, and the stench of blood is washed away by the gentle scent of flowers. The pain dulls and leaves, and when he dares to open his eyes again, Ben finds himself looking up into a woman's face. He's resting in her lap just like he was a child. She smiles down at him, her face framed by brown curls and haloed by light, and Ben recognizes her. “Grandmother?”

“Shh,” she tells him gently, patting his hair. “Shhh, Ben. He's trying to get to you, but he can't hurt you anymore, not really. You've come so far; you mustn't give up now. You've been brave, and your grandfather and I are very, very proud of you.”

“You … you are?”

“Of course.” His grandmother starts humming then, speaking a child's rhyme which he doesn't recognize but which calms him nonetheless. “Home again,” she chants, “home again, to rest, by hearth and heart, house and nest ...”

She repeats the rhyme but when she does, her voice is different. Ben tenses at first, and tries to pull himself away, but strong hands hold him in place. When he opens his eyes again, he's staring up at Rey. There are purple flowers woven in her hair, and she looks happy to see him.

“Home again,” she says, beaming, and leans down to kiss him on the forehead.

“Rey ...” Ben breathes.

“Shh.” Rey traces the path of the scar on his face with a series of soft, delicate kisses, her hand splayed over his heart, which is beating impossibly fast. Ben closes his eyes _it's a dream it's okay you're not doing anything wrong_ but there's a warm **drip drip drip** and when Ben opens his eyes he sees that the purple flowers in Rey's hair have thorns and she's cut, she's bleeding and her eyes are yellow …

… and then, she digs into his chest and wraps her fingers around his still-beating heart.

“Rey,” Ben gasps. “Rey … please ...”

Something stirs in her yellow eyes, a horrified awareness. Her grip on his heart loosens and she says softly “Ben ...”

 **“Destroy him,”** Snoke says from somewhere nearby, and all softness, all hesitation, is wiped away. Rey growls and clamps down on Ben's heart again.

“Monster,” she whispers, and she looks straight into his eyes and **rips …**

Ben wakes up screaming, thrashing, punching the wall next to his bunk. He doesn't even realize he's still yelling until the door flies open and Rey tears into the room, her lightsaber drawn and glowing blue in the darkness. He freezes beneath her wide-eyed gaze, the very breath arrested in his lungs. In that moment, he's still afraid of her, and torn between fight and flight, he chooses neither, and remains frozen.

“What did you do?” Rey says, and it sounds like she's yelling.

He cringes, shaking his head, the numbness leaving him and sensation creeping back. His knuckles are bleeding; he feels the hot blood trickling between his fingers and the pain in his hand. “Go away,” he says, more of a sob than a sentence.

“Like hell I will,” Rey says hotly, turning off her lightsaber and tossing it down as she closes the distance between them, standing over him.

Ben balls up his fists and brings them close to his bare chest, curling himself into a fetal position and squeezing his eyes shut. “Go away,” he repeats.

“You're bleeding,” Rey replies.

“... doesn't matter … just go ...”

“Not bloody likely!” There's a slight quaver in Rey's voice, through the steely determination, and it's the quaver that Ben hears most clearly. She's scared too. He's frightening her. Pulling himself together in that moment is one of the hardest things he's done, but he manages it, at least enough to meet her eyes.

“ … not going to _hurt_ you,” she's saying now, with a stormy expression on her face. “It was just a nightmare.”

“Right,” Ben says softly, his voice fuzzy in his mouth, weak-sounding. “Just a nightmare. Not important … just go back to bed.”

Rey shakes her head. “Just … let me go get the medkit, okay? Your hand is bleeding a lot. I'll be right back.” She leaves before he can argue, as if that would do any good.

Ben tries to just focus on breathing in and breathing out, in and out, in and out …

By the time Rey returns, he's managed to slow his heart rate and still the shaking of his body. He's just lying there, limp and loose, a sheen of cold sweat on his skin, his eyelids heavy. All of him is very heavy, but he forces himself to sit up. He can't bring himself to meet Rey's gaze; his head falls forward, his hair in front of his eyes. He cradles his injured hand in his lap, the occasional throb of pain making him more alert, more awake. His fingers are slick with blood.

Rey's fingers close around his wrist, and his fingers automatically curl up, trying to conceal the damage, trying to pull away.

“Let me see,” she prompts him, quietly.

“It's nothing.” His voice is flat, empty of feeling and expression.

Rey exhales gustily, and her vexation is so strong that Ben can feel it, and with it, the edge of concern that scrapes at his consciousness. “I realize that this might be asking the impossible,” Rey says, “but Ben, please don't be an ass.”

The laugh that sputters out of him is startled, undignified, and semi-hysterical. He tosses his hair aside and peeks at Rey, who looks steadily back at him, with a no-nonsense expression. Inevitably, Ben's fingers uncurl and he opens his wounded hand, which Rey is now holding in both of hers. She flicks her gaze down, quickly examining the damage. The cuts on his palms are from his fingernails digging in, and his knuckles will be bruised. Ben could have told her that much, but Rey seems to want to do this and he's just too fragile not to allow it. And besides, he doesn't want to be an ass.

So he lets Rey clean the blood from his hand. Lets her smear bacta over the cuts and wind a bandage around his knuckles. After a while, he shakily says “I'm sorry.”

“For what?” A fair question, as he still has a lot of things to apologize for.

“For waking you up.”

Rey shakes her head and a stray tendril of hair falls from her messy ponytail. There are deep purple shadows beneath her eyes, he notices now. “You didn't. The nightmare did.”

Finally, he understands, and his eyes flicker up to meet her dead-on, unable to resist any longer. “You mean we had the same …”

“I guess we did. Again.”

“Oh.”

"I wouldn't do that, you know," Rey says, resentfully and softly, heat simmering in her tired eyes.

"Wouldn't do what?" _Kiss me? Or kill me?_

"Hurt you," Rey stresses. "I know what you think about me, but it's not true, all right? I _don't_ enjoy hurting people. I _don't_ like seeing people in pain."

"If you say so.”

"What happened on Starkiller Base ... things were different back then. I was angry, I was scared, I didn't see anything but the worst parts of you and you were so ..."

"You don't ... you don't owe me an explanation, Rey ..."

"I know, but ..." She shakes her head. "Let me say this. I don't want that to be who I am. I don't want to be someone people fear. I never wanted that, I never wanted to fight, or be in a war, I never wanted any of this ..."

"Okay," he says, "okay."

"I _didn't_ ," she insists.

"I believe you."

“I just wanted my family,” Rey says, very quietly. "I just wanted to go home."

It isn't boldness that makes Ben do what he does next; it's sheer instinct and lack of impulse control. With his uninjured hand, he reaches out and traces the curve of Rey's face with his fingertips, moving from her hairline to her jaw before pulling his hand back.

“It's okay,” he tells her quietly. “You are home.”

She's quiet, but the warmth that blooms in her heart is a palpable thing, and when she looks at him, she's glowing.  

“Thanks … but what about you?”

He groans, rubbing a shaking hand across his forehead. “What about me?”

“This isn't just about a nightmare. You've been getting jumpier and more tense ever since we left Dagobah. It's about Han … it's about your father, isn't it?”

Relief, sweet relief at not having to carry this secret alone. Relief that she noticed, that she _cared_. For a few moments Ben just breathes it in.

“He's … I can't find him,” he whispers at last, looking at Rey with quiet desperation. “It's like he's just not … I just can't …”

Rey nods. “I wondered.”

Ben doesn't know what else to say, so for now, he says nothing.

“Do you want me to go wake up Chewie?” Rey asks.

He shakes his head emphatically, a sick feeling in his stomach. He can't talk to Chewie about this, he will never be able to talk to Chewie about his father; he can't believe he did that, can't believe he made him watch his best friend die …

_find something else to think about anything else_

“You didn't … happen to dream about my grandmother, did you?" he asks Rey.

She frowns thoughtfully at him. "No. I dreamed about ... other things. A lot of things.”

So they're only sharing the last parts of their dreams. That makes sense, he supposes. Well, as much as any of this could be said to make sense.

“Do you want to talk about it ... the other stuff?” he asks her carefully.

“No,” comes her swift reply, and she's holding the edge of his blanket between her hands and wringing it back and forth.

"But the last part ..."

"Yes. With the blood, and the flowers, and the ..." she pauses.

"And the Supreme Leader."

"Right. Him." Rey's voice is tinged with loathing and disgust. This heartens Ben, and he sits up straighter, feeling some strength returning to his body, some steadiness to his trembling hands.

"Why do you think this is happening?" Rey asks Ben. "Why are we having the same dreams?"

He's barely opened his mouth to reply when there's a ripple in the Force, a flicker and glow of blue.

"You share the same dreams," says a calm, familiar voice beside them, "because you share the same destiny."

The ghost finishes materializing over Rey's shoulder, looking as he often does: knowing and rather stern but kind all the same, a lifetime's worth of sadness and wisdom in his blue eyes, written in the lines on his white-bearded face.

"Master Obi-Wan!" Rey exclaims, joyful, relieved. "Where have you been?"

"Occupied," says the old ghost. "But keeping an eye on the two of you when I can ... as ever."

Ben draws in a sharp breath, ready to demand the answers he can no longer bear not having, but he doesn't manage to get the words formed in his mind, much less in his mouth, before Rey cuts in.

"Where is Han, Master Obi-Wan? Where did he go? And why did you never tell me that he was ..." Rey breaks off, emotion overpowering her.

"It was Ben's story to tell, Rey, not mine," Kenobi says quietly. "And as for Han's present whereabouts ..." The Jedi slowly shakes his head, and Rey begins to give off an aura of disquiet.

"Where is my father?" Ben demands, his voice a dull knife in the belly of the silence.

Obi-Wan looks up, meeting Ben's eyes with the sad but steady gaze that has become so familiar over the past weeks. He finds he's missed that look and yet now, he never wants to see it again, because it means that he's not going to like what's coming next.

"I'm afraid," says the ghost whose name Ben bears, "that I have no idea."

Ben feels nothing.

Into the gnawing void where his feelings should be, Rey's disappointment pours like a bitter flood, and he feels, as though from a great distance, her hand coming to rest lightly upon his shoulder. Is it him or herself she's comforting? It doesn't matter. Nothing matters.

"Why not?" Rey's voice sounds like she's speaking from underwater. "I thought you knew ... everything!"

A smile containing little in it of joy tilts the ghost's lips, his white mustache twitching just so briefly. "Your faith in my knowledge is touching, Rey, but undeserved. I know only what I must know in order to serve the will of the Force. There is much yet that is beyond my ken."

 _Then what good are you?_ Ben thinks venomously. But what little strength he had regained in the wake of the nightmare seemed to been bled from him now. Was it only yesterday that he felt hope?

"I am sorry, Ben ..." Obi-Wan starts to say, and the anger that flares in the younger Ben gives him just enough of the heat that he requires to go on.

"You brought him with you the first time," he grates out, his whole body curling in on itself like a clenched fist. "You could do it again. You _have_ to."

Obi-Wan shakes his head firmly. "Understand me, Ben ... I'm not toying with you. If I had either the knowledge of your father's whereabouts or the means to summon him, I would do it an instant. Do you think it pleases me to watch you suffer, either of you? No. But I no longer have that power. Since I first helped him manifest, many things have changed. Your father's Force energy has become tied to yours, Ben. Only you can summon him now."

Somehow, Ben knew that Obi-Wan was going to say that. But the foreknowledge doesn't dull the impact of the words. They still slam into his consciousness, quite hard enough to hurt.

"But I can't," Ben whispers. "Don't you understand that? I've tried, and I've tried, but I just can't. I can't reach him, I can't even feel him. It's like he's not even out there. It's like he's just ..."

 _Gone gone gone_ he can't make himself say it he doesn't even want to think it Rey's still gripping his shoulder but how can he take any comfort from that simple gesture when he's failed her he's failed her she misses Han Solo too, she wishes she could see his face, hear his voice, but she can't, Ben took Han Solo away from Rey and Chewie and Leia and everyone else in the world who cared about him and now he might have lost him too once and for all and he can't handle that he can't live with that he can't ...

" ... may be difficult for you to accept, Ben," Kenobi is saying softly now, "but ... your father did appear to you with the goal of bringing you back home, returning you to the path of the Light. And he has done that. He succeeded. Your heart and your allegiances have changed. It may be that Han Solo's work is done."

_it's not it's not it's not no he wouldn't ... he said he'd never leave me again he said it i heard him he said it **HE PROMISED**_

There is something rising up inside of Ben, something hurting and dark, something raw and exposed, something broken without any hope of ever healing, some dumb animal thing that has no words for the agony, only a howl that goes on and on and on. He has to vent his rage, his pain, but he can't, because there's no one here for him to hurt, no enemies whose destruction and torment he could somehow justify he can't even take up his saber and slash at the walls of the ship because this is the Falcon and even if his father will never see it again he still couldn't bring himself to do it damage. There's only one person here he can hurt and it's himself.

He tears away from Rey and bangs his head against the wall, hard. The blinding white light that bursts in his head blinds him to everything but the pain. For a few seconds, with the ringing in his ears and the sick dizzy feeling in his stomach and the throbbing in his head, he does forget the reason he hurt himself in the first place. But that relief of agony ... it doesn't last for long.

As if from a long distance, he hears Rey yelling his name, she sounds terrified and angry all at once and he knows all he's done is screw up again, how did he ever think for even a second that he could ever do this, make things right, he can't do it not without his father to tell him what to do not with so many things left unspoken between them, most of them on his side most of it all his fault he can't do this he can't do anything ...

Throwing himself to the floor, Ben scrambles to his feet. His hand hurts again and his head is still throbbing from the impact with the wall. He doesn't care. He feels Rey reach out and try to grab hold of his arm, hears Obi-Wan Kenobi calling his name, but he doesn't pause. He doesn't know what he's doing or where he's going, he just knows his body is moving and he has to get out of there. He can't stay here. He doesn't belong here. He doesn't belong anywhere. So he's running, he's running, he's running ...

... and he slams straight into the solid wall of fur and fierce affection that is Chewbacca.

The Wookiee's arms lock around Ben and his first instinct is to fight his way free, shove Chewie aside; he could do it, with the Force, he could easily do it ...

... but he can't hurt Chewie, he won't. And he can't get away from Chewie without hurting him, so he can't get away from him at all. So he gives in, subdued by the Wookiee's superior physical strength, and slumps weakly forward, balling his hands into fists against Chewie's chest, hiding his face in the thick fur. The pain in his head is ebbing steadily away, leaving behind it a sick feeling of shame and dread, but the burst of rage is gone. He's not dangerous anymore, not even to himself.

Chewie adjusts his unrelenting hold on Ben, no less unrelenting but much more gentle and calming. Behind him, Ben can feel the presence of Rey and the ghost of Kenobi, but he can't acknowledge them, and Chewie can't see the ghost anyway. It's easier just to pretend that he and Chewie are alone.

In low growls, Chewie asks him what happened.

"I messed up," Ben whispers. "I messed up, Chewie ..."

Chewie grunts and rocks Ben back and forth, speaking quiet, guttural reassurances in Shryiiwook. Telling him everything's fine, that they will get through this.

"But I ... I have to be stronger, Chewie,” Ben murmurs. “I have to ... I can't go on like this. I can't ... I can't ..."

Chewie, though, tells him that he doesn't have to be any stronger, that he is already being strong enough.

“You really think that, Chewie?”

Chewie rumbles at Ben, telling him he doesn't think it, he _knows_ it.  Everything is going to be fine.  After all, isn't he here for Ben? Isn't Rey here? Isn't his mother waiting for him for to come home?

Stubborn tears well hot in Ben's eyes and his head still throbs dully with pain. What Chewie's saying is true, but …

“I want my dad,” Ben says with a sob. The one thing he swore he'd never be so selfish to say out loud, especially not to Chewie, but it's the one thing he can no longer hold back.

Chewie draws back slightly, and tells Ben that his father will always be with him. He pats Ben's chest to demonstrate, whining consolations.

“I don't … want him … in my heart, Chewie,” Ben chokes through tears. “I ... want ... him ...  _back_.”

Chewie lets out a quiet groan, his pain in solidarity with Ben's, and pats his hair over and over again while he cries. Ben sways on his feet, and he's so far gone that when Chewie scoops him up, he puts up only a token resistance before allowing himself to be carried back to his bunk. He just closes his eyes and tries to keep the world out. He's dimly aware of Chewie convincing him to drink something that smells like tea but tastes absolutely vile, and even more dimly he overhears Rey and Chewie murmuring and realizes, too late to fight it, that they've dosed him with something so he'll sleep and not hurt himself.

Darkness closes over him like a fist, and he knows nothing for who knows how long.

 

 

When he wakes up again, they're in space.

He's spent so much of his life on one ship or another that he recognizes the feeling in his blood before he's even properly awake, long before it occurs to him to open his eyes. The second he does, he just wants to close them again. The view of his room, of his bandaged hand, of the wall beside his head, just reminds him of the disastrous consequences of being conscious.

 _Maybe,_ he thinks, _I can just sleep through everything. Maybe I can sleep through picking up Uncle Luke, and going to the Resistance. Maybe I can sleep through the whole damn war._ Hell, he's tired enough. So, lying there in the dark and in the quiet, Ben tries to relax, to allow himself to drift off, to feel at peace.

Peace ... is there any such a thing? Especially for one such as him? If so, it's somewhere far away, far out of his reach. It's not like he expected this to be easy, it's not like he really thought all the broken pieces would suddenly fly back into place just because he left Snoke behind. He's still lost now, just not maybe as lost as before. But Chewie was right. At least he's not alone.

_Not alone ..._

… _I am not alone …_

He's gone suddenly cold, shivering beneath his blanket. His skin is in prickles, his hair fairly standing on end, his mouth dry. There's no chance of him falling asleep now; he's awake and painfully alert to the presence inside his head.

_Not alone at all._

**Hello, Kylo Ren.**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ hello darkness my old friend ~ 
> 
> shout-out to the Attack of the Clones novelization by R.A. Salvatore for Padme's nursery rhyme, shout out to all of you for reading, I love you all and I hope you will forgive me for my continued meanness ;) also, I know I say this a lot, but I'm using CampNanoWriMo to work on this/other fanfics so barring any unforeseen life events/downward mental health spirals, the next chapter ought not to be that long in coming! <3
> 
> as always, comments are love, life and inspiration!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You are a killer, a warrior, a conqueror. You are a Knight of Ren. You are a creature of the Dark side, and no matter how far away you run, no matter where you try to hide ... you will always be mine."

The voice in his head brings with it a stabbing pain.

 

He whimpers, grabs his face in his hands, tugs at his hair, trying to distract himself from the pain the cold the voice the voice the _voice_ to make it go away go away go _away_ ...

 

… and the pain, at least, does abate, pulling back like a wave drawn away from the shore. But the voice - Snoke's voice - cedes no ground, allows him no relief.

 

**Well? What have you to say for yourself, Kylo Ren? Have you no greeting for your master?**

 

He shakes his head furiously, not sure if he's unwilling or just unable to speak or think. But when he fails to respond, the wave of pain in his head returns, crashing down upon him with renewed fury. It takes his breath so that his scream is a silent thing. He grinds his teeth he bites his lip he tries to fight it off he _tries_ ...

 

**Explain yourself, my apprentice.**

 

Something snaps inside of him when that cold voice tries to lay claim to him. The pain doesn't go away or get any less, but somehow … it ceases to matter quite so much.

 

“ _Not_ yours,” he snarls. His voice is faint at first, cracking with the strain, but the sound his own rebellion makes gives him more strength. When he repeats himself he's louder, fiercer. “I am _not_ yours.”

 

Save for those fevered daydreams in which he craved Snoke's death after learning of his treachery, he has never dared think of being so directly defiant. He was prepared for none of this, and can only do what comes to mind in these dark and desperate moments.

 

 _But you've done it now,_  he thinks wildly.

 

There's a pause, just long enough to make him doubt if the exchange occurred at all. And just when he's begun to breathe again, the voice comes back, colder and clearer and sharper than ever.

 

**Do you truly believe that, Kylo Ren?**

 

His breathing goes harsh and uneven, strange to his own ears. It sounds like it's coming from outside of him, like it's the breathing of some wild animal trapped in the room with him. The blanket in his hands begins to tear as he twists it back and forth, and his mouth fills with the nasty iron taste of fear. His mind, invaded once again, toyed with once again, is blank and black as a stretch of space devoid of stars.

 

But something inside of him, something Snoke has not yet managed to touch, stirs to life, and helps him speak.

 

"My name ..." he gasps, forcing each word out past the terror and nausea that threaten to overwhelm him, "My name ... is … _Ben_."

 

Snoke does not allow him even a moment of victory.

 

**Your name is unimportant; it is not who, but _what_ you are that matters, Kylo Ren. You are a killer, a warrior, a conqueror. You are a Knight of Ren. You are a creature of the Dark side, and no matter how far away you run, no matter where you try to hide ... you will _always_ be mine.**

 

Horror thrills down the length of Ben's spine. His stomach churns, his head reels, his body aches, and the darkened room seems to be growing even darker, closing in around him, emptying of air so he's clutching at his chest and gasping ...

 

… _but it's not real, it's an illusion, Snoke's far away, he can't hurt you not really, he can't hurt you,_ he tells himself. He repeats those words, the words his father's ghost told him once, and his grandmother told him in his dream. Those words steady him just enough to return some of the air to his lungs, and he speaks again.

 

"I. Am. _Not_. _Yours_ ," he grates out, each word a struggle.

 

**Oh yes, you are, Kylo Ren. You have always known the truth; how can you now deny it? The fools you have surrounded yourself with will never see you, never accept you for who you are. Your deepest self is a dark thing, known only to me. Cared for only by _me_. **

 

Ben's still desperate, still aching, still afraid but now, there's something else.

 

He's angry.

 

“You're a liar,” he spits, fury lancing through him, heating up his blood. “You've always been a liar!”

 

**Who is lying to whom, Kylo Ren? I promised you strength and power and prestige, and with me, fighting in my name, commanding the First Order, you had it. What have the girl and the ghosts and the Wookiee given you?**

 

 _Kindness,_ Ben thinks, _and mercy, and gentleness, and …_

 

… **love?**

 

Ben shakes and says nothing. Into his silence, the Supreme Leader just laughs.

 

**Absurd sentiments, my apprentice. All of these things I taught you to reject, because they would ruin you, make you weak. Can you not see the proof of that on your own face, Kylo Ren? Can you not feel it, laying here helpless? How weak you have become?**

 

“That's not true,” Ben says, shaking his head, denying the words and attempting to shake loose the pain that the Supreme Leader's chilling presence has lodged in his skull. “It's _not_. I am stronger now than I ever was when I was with you ...” But his voice does not sound strong anymore, it's a bleached and brittle thing and it cracks and he collapses in on himself, squeezing his eyes shut as tears leak out.

 

 **This you call strength?** Snoke spills his disgust, his disdain into Ben's mind like a toxin, making him feel sick with shame. **Sleeping your days away, crying in the dark, calling for your father? Pathetic. I taught you better than this, Kylo Ren.**

 

For a precious moment, rage blinds Ben. “I'll kill you,” he growls out, the words ripping from his chest, hardly sounding human. “I'll _ruin_ you.” _Just like you ruined me …_

 

Snoke ruins everything, of course. Snoke _laughs._

 

**Now, that's more like it, my dear boy. That reckless anger, that dark heart of yours … I wondered when it would return to the surface. And I knew that it would.**

 

“You don't know anything!”

 

 **It always will define you,** Snoke continues as if he hasn't spoken. **You will never be able to change, Kylo Ren. You know this as well as I do. Must you really break to find out where your strength lies? Or will you see reason now, before you allow your so-called family to cast you aside … yet again?**

 

A shudder rocks Ben's whole body, and tears struggle at his eyelashes.

 

“That won't happen,” he chokes, wrapping his arms around himself in a futile attempt to still the shaking. “My … mother ...”

 

… **could not accept you as a child, so what makes you think that she will ever accept you as a man? As a murderer? Her husband's murderer, no less?**

 

The tears spill free, burning their way down Ben's face and into his open, gasping mouth. _He's lying, he doesn't know anything, Mom told me it's okay, she wants me to come home, she told me …_

 

**Oh, Kylo Ren. General Organa is tricking you, can't you see that? She will use any methods necessary to see you brought down for what she considers crimes. I know better. You have done great services to the galaxy … but if you go to her, she will not see it that way. She sees you as a traitor, a lost son. If she has mercy on you, your death will come swiftly. If not, then you may live out the rest of your days in a cell. And you were not born for such indignities, Kylo Ren.**

 

Ben wants to deny this, he wants so much to deny it, he _burns_ to deny it but he can't. For all he knows, it could be true. He accepted that, though. He accepted it on Dagobah when he knelt at Rey's feet and begged her for mercy, for help. He accepted it when he promised his mother he would come home. He knew what coming home might mean, regardless of his mother's intentions.

 

He knows there is a chance the Resistance will punish him in whatever way they see fit, be it imprisonment or execution.

 

But better to be their prisoner, or even their victim, than to be Snoke's again.

 

**If the Resistance does not kill you, Kylo Ren, then the First Order will.**

 

Somehow the fact that Snoke has moved from false pity to threats eases Ben's burdens, and in a moment of lightness, he gains enough control to snap back, even with the tears on his face.

 

“I'm not afraid of them. I'm not afraid of you.”

 

**Oh, but I think you are. If you continue on your present course, you will die a traitor's death, make no mistake. But that need not happen, Kylo Ren. You can still return to me. You can bring me Luke Skywalker. You can bring me the girl. It is not too late. If you return to me, if you deliver me the Jedi, then I will forgive you for everything.**

 

The mention of Rey does a strange thing to Ben. It makes him calm.

 

He sits up straight, ignoring the persisting pain in his head. He sniffs and wipes the residue of tears from his face with the back of his un-bandaged hand, and he blinks and opens his eyes and stares fixedly at the wall. There's nothing to see – Snoke's presence is entirely in his mind – but the familiar surroundings of the Falcon are heartening.

 

He's already home. Snoke can't take that from him no matter how hard he tries.

 

"You won't touch Rey,” Ben says aloud into the stillness of the room. He doesn't say it like he's making a promise or a threat. He says it like it's true, like it has always been true and always will be. "Or my uncle. And I will never, ever return to you."

 

**I believe that you are mistaken about that, Kylo Ren.**

 

“That isn't my name.”

 

**Then why do you still answer to it?**

 

Ben falls silent, curling and uncurling his uninjured hand into a fist and out again. The other he keeps flat on the bed beside him, his fingertips digging into the soft weave of the blanket, seeking the variations in the texture to keep him distracted from Snoke's unsettling aura. It's such a frail defense, and Snoke knows it.

 

**The girl … do you really think that you can keep her from me forever?**

 

“Yes,” Ben says.

 

**You would defy me to protect her. The girl who thinks you are a monster.**

 

Ben bites his lip hard, trying to cancel out the pain in his head.

 

 **She will always think you are a monster, Kylo Ren.** **She will never look at you the way you look at her. She will never see what you want her to see.**

 

One stray tear falls from his lashes, making a dark blotch on the blanket.

 

**But there is a way to remedy that, isn't there? You can make her a monster too.**

 

Ben's eyes fly wide open as something flares in the embers of his heart. Something selfish. Something ugly.  Something dark.

 

**Bring her to me, Kylo Ren, and the two of you could be invincible. Together, you could make the galaxy your own. And you would never, either of you, have to be alone or afraid again.**

 

Ben closes his eyes. Draws a deep, steadying breath. The temptation that had blossomed like a dark flower withers to dust and blows away entirely.

 

Because he remembers who it was who made him feel alone and afraid in the first place.

 

He won't let Snoke do that to Rey too. Even if she hates him, even if she hurts him, even if she rips his heart right out like she did in that dream, he wouldn't care. There isn't anything Ben Solo wouldn't do, nothing that he wouldn't sacrifice, to make sure that Rey stays safe and far away from Supreme Leader Snoke.

 

“Get out,” he says quietly.

 

**And abandon you at your lowest, my apprentice? I think not.**

 

This mockery of compassion makes Ben's skin crawl. Snoke's absolute refusal to acknowledge his independence is doing nasty work on him, creeping in his consciousness, stirring dark tendrils of doubt along with the never-ending, pounding ache in his head. The longer this contest of wills goes on, the clearer it becomes to him that he can't rely on himself. He's scared, and he's in pain, and he's exhausted and he just wants all this to _stop_.

 

He wants someone to help him make it stop.

 

“Obi-Wan … help me …”

 

When no answer comes, he tries again, still pushing, still fighting through the pain even though it only increases every time he asks for help.

 

“Grandfather … please …”

 

No response, no respite. Not that he really expected any. He's too weak to reach them, too pitiful to make himself heard. And besides, he's turned them away too many times before; why should they come to his aid now? Why would they bother? Why would anybody bother with Ben Solo?

 

 **Only Kylo Ren is worth anything,** Snoke confirms. **Only Kylo Ren ever was. Do you think that you can outrun your destiny?**

 

_My destiny …_

 

Those words reach something in him, offering a moment of clarity in which the pain abates and he can think, pull the pieces of something together. It's bigger than he is and he doesn't understand it but he does understand one thing with absolutely, iron certainty: his destiny is not with Snoke. It never was, and it never will be again.

 

“Get out,” he repeats.

 

The pain returns like thousands of white-hot needles being jabbed inside his skull. Ben does not scream, he will not scream. He thrashes and he kicks and he lashes out with his whole body and his whole mind but he doesn't make a sound.

 

He will not scream for Snoke ever again.

 

Inside his head, a piercing laugh peals and echoes. **Are you so certain of that? Have you forgotten the power of the darkness, Kylo Ren?**

 

Snoke uses that power very well … too well. He has made a mistake. Crying and tossing and turning in his pain, the man he's torturing is a small, scared thing. He is not powerful, he is not strong, he is not darkness. He's more Ben Solo than ever, a little boy caught in a nightmare, and there's only one person he knows who can make the nightmare go away.

 

“Dad,” Ben sobs. Through of haze of pain that Snoke is inflicting on him, he feels his body shaking, feels the tears crawling hot and sticky down his cheeks. He's kicked his blanket into a snarled tangle around him and he curls deeper into it like it can protect him, hide him. “DAD!”

 

It's not that he really expects Han Solo to answer him or to appear. It's not that he sees an end to the helpless agony that holds him in its icy grip.

 

He just doesn't know what else to do.

 

The pain does leave him now, but it leaves him empty. His chest rises and falls with effort, as if even his body doesn't see the point in trying anymore. The Force stirs slightly then, around him; in him; it feels like it's trying to comfort him but there is no comfort. _No one is coming to save you Ben Solo no one is coming to save you no one no one no one_

 

**Do you see now, Kylo Ren? Han Solo has abandoned you once more. He could not be depended upon in life; what made you think he could be trusted in death?**

 

“Stop it … go away …”

 

The voice continues despite his pleas, cold and inexorable as an approaching winter. **Only I have never left you, Kylo Ren. Only I will never leave you.**

 

“ _ **I never asked for you!”**_ Ben cries, his voice cracking, thick with tears. _**“I never wanted you! Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone ...”**_ With each repetition he slams his hands down on his bunk like a child throwing a tantrum. _**“Get out, get out, GET OUT ...”**_

 

The Force moves through him, strong and sure, making him feel strong and sure in turn. Strong and sure and not alone in this fight. Never alone in this fight.

 

“That's it, kid!” says a familiar voice close by him, gruff and proud. “Give him hell!”

 

_Dad._

 

Ben doesn't dare turn to look at the ghost, but knowing that he's there, hearing his voice, feeling his presence again … it's everything he needs. He acts quickly, taking advantage of Snoke's surprise.

 

With a hard, ferocious shove, Ben does something he's never done before, something he didn't even think that he was capable of doing … he _hurls_ Snoke out of his mind.

 

It all happens so fast and sudden that the peace left behind is just as unbalancing as the pain and intrusion was. Ben's left in a sweat, his throat raw, gulping air like he's never breathed before. He pulls the slightly ripped blanket around himself, huddling under it for much-needed warmth, and rakes a hand through his mussed hair, and focuses on steadying his breathing. He does everything he can to try and collect himself while delaying the moment when he will have to turn his head and possibly learn that he has finally lost his mind, and only wanted his father with him so much merely imagined him there.

 

“You did it, Ben,” Han Solo tells him. “He's gone. You're safe.”

 

Ben takes a deep breath and turns.

 

His father's ghost smiles at him from across the cabin, leaning on one of the other bunks. That seemingly casual pose … he knows Han Solo well enough by now to realize he appears relaxed when he is anything but.

 

“Miss me?” the ghost says lamely, flashing a crooked grin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise! late night update! that last cliffhanger felt too mean, so here's a kinder one. (well, slightly kinder anyway. "after the rain comes the rainbow" and all that). as always, please let me know what you think! all of y'all's comments are such a joy to me :)


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A good person would be grateful, Ben thinks, biting the inside of his cheek. But that's kind of the point, isn't it? A good person would not be in this situation in the first place.

Ben hates himself for being angry. He has no right to be angry; he knows that. It ought to be enough that his father came back for him in the first place. It ought to be more than enough. Han Solo came back from the dead for him; how many other sons can say that of their fathers?

 

_A good person would be grateful,_ Ben thinks, biting the inside of his cheek. But that's kind of the point, isn't it? A good person would not be in this situation in the first place. Ben Solo is not a good person. He's selfish and broken and uncontrolled and mean. Regardless of whether it's right or wrong for him to feel this way, it doesn't matter. This is who he is. He is angry, and hurt, and confused, just like he was when he was a child. So, like a child, he lashes out.

 

“You said you would never leave me again,” he accuses. The intended harshness of the words is diminished somewhat by his hoarse voice and quivering lip. But they seem to hit Han Solo just as hard as if Ben had screamed them.

 

The grin falls from his father's face, and the sparkle leaves his hazel eyes. But the ghost recovers quickly enough, hitching up that wry, apologetic half-smile Ben knows so well. "Just 'cause you can't see me doesn't mean I ain't there, kid,” Han Solo tells him.

 

_Is that supposed to make me feel better?_ If anything, he feels worse. His father's words topple him deeper into confusion, tying him in knots.

 

"B-but if you've been here all along ..." Ben coughs, folds his hand in his lap, lacing his fingers together tightly. “I called for you,” he mutters finally, bending his fingers against each other until his knuckles threaten to crack. “I _begged_ for you ...”

 

“I heard you,” Han Solo says, his voice low and strained. “I heard you, Ben ...”

 

Ben peels his fingers apart and places his hands on his thighs, digging his fingertips into his flesh cruelly hard. “Then why didn't you ...”

 

“Hey, let me get a sentence out, would ya?”

 

Ben can't help but look up; there's something in that tone he can't ignore. His dad's eyes are as dark and sad as he has ever seen them, and when he speaks, his tone is too low, too careful. “I _tried_ to answer you, Ben, I swear. I tried like hell. But I just … I just couldn't. Whenever I would try to call back to you, to reach you ...” He shakes his head fiercely, his face contorting in pain. “Nothing happened. I couldn't. You needed me and I would have done anything to get to you, but there wasn't a damn thing I _could_ do. It was like ...” Han Solo pauses abruptly, his gaze sharpening and zeroing in on Ben. “Hey, knock it off, kid. You'll give yourself bruises.”

 

Ben digs his fingertips into his thighs even harder, making himself wince. “I don't care.”

 

“Well, I do!” Han Solo snaps at him. “Stop it, Ben!”

 

“You can't make me,” Ben snaps back.

 

His dad looks at him for a long time. Just _looks_ , his brow furrowed and his face deep in an impressive frown, a barely perceptible tremor to his set chin. Ben glares back, determined not to blink or flinch, but the longer he stares into his father's eyes, the less he wants to be doing what he's doing.

 

_I'm hurting him too,_ he realizes. Slowly, he pulls his aching hands up and folds them back in his lap.

 

“Thank you,” his dad says sharply. His unhappiness is obvious, but his shoulders are sagged in relief. They both take a moment, and gingerly Han Solo asks “You didn't do that kind of stuff when you were a kid … did you?”

 

Ben closes his eyes, leaning his head against the wall as the past comes back to him, an old wound that won't ever stop aching. _Lying in his bed in the dark, wondering why he felt so awful all the time, why everything hurt so silently and so much; why did all of his pain have to be on the inside? Pinching his arms really hard every time he had a thought he was ashamed of, which was often. Chewing the inside of his cheek bloody when he was about to say something that sounded pathetic, something that the Voice would have chastised him for; it hurt for a week just to drink or eat or brush his teeth but he tried not to cry, accepting the pain as a penance, nothing less than what he deserved. Staring at himself in the mirror and hating what he saw, thinking he was ugly in every possible way, and feeling compelled to punish himself for it, so he slowly dragged his fingernails down his cheeks and watched white lines slowly turn red and then fade before his eyes …_

 

These were the tiniest actions, habitual, oft-repeated but ultimately unimportant. They added up to nothing and they are still things he does, sometimes, but he doesn't think about them anymore. Next to the burn of a lightsaber blade, the damage his own fingers can do is like nothing at all. But those small cruelties don't seem like nothing to Han Solo.

 

“I tried not to leave marks,” Ben says in muffled tones, rubbing his closed eyes. When he opens them, he sees an angry sadness has settled over his father's face, hardening it.

 

"Why not? 'Cause you were afraid your mom and I would see?"

 

Ben draws a sharp, shaky breath. He doesn't want to say what he's about to say, but still less does he want to be a liar.

 

"No," he mumbles finally, picking at his fingernails. “I was afraid that you wouldn't."

 

Han Solo's face seems to crumble, and he blinks and looks away from his son, staring at the opposite wall. “Okay, kid,” he says at last, a crack in his voice, and he slowly nods as he looks back at Ben. “Okay. You got my attention.”

 

_Finally,_ Ben thinks, in that mean, petty voice in the back of his mind that belongs to only him. _It only took thirty years._ “Can we talk about something else?” he asks, finally trusting his hands enough to reach out and run them restlessly through his hair. “Please?”

 

“Sure,” his dad says, sitting up straighter, eager to oblige. “Whatever you want, kid.”

 

“You were telling me what it was like for you,” Ben prompts, “where you were.”

 

“Right.” His father's brow furrows and then smooths out as he picks up where he left off. “It was like being trapped. Like I was part of the world but not part of it, at the same time. I was cut off, I guess, blocked, hidden behind some invisible wall that I couldn't figure out how to break down. No matter how many times I went slamming myself up against it. And everything inside of me was yelling that I needed to be out there, fighting, taking care of someone I ...” The ghost's words fall and trip over each other. It seems to be with some difficulty that he pulls himself together and meeting his son's eyes, shifting in his seat. “Did I ever tell you about the time I got frozen in carbonite?”

 

“Once or twice,” Ben replies, uneasy. Whenever his dad told him stories from his Rebellion days, he'd make it all sound like a big adventure, a swashbuckling tale of heroics and daring. Everything bad that happened to him, he made it sound like a minor inconvenience. But Ben could always tell when his dad was lying or leaving things out, which was often. Now he senses that he's about to get more of the truth, but he isn't entirely sure that it's something he wants to hear.

 

“Well, hibernation is one thing,” Han Solo explains haltingly, “not that it's any picnic … but hibernation sickness is another beast entirely. Not one that I would suggest experiencing if you can help it, kid.”

 

“I'll try to stay out of carbon-freezing chambers.”

 

“Smart idea. Okay, so … that time, when I was out, I was _out_. I couldn't care what was happening outside of me because there was no outside of me. Wasn't even any _me_ , not that I was aware of, anyway. Waking up, now … Waking up, everything hurt. I couldn't see a damn thing, couldn't move without shaking, couldn't walk without help. Didn't know where I was, or what the hell was going on. Last thing I remembered ...” Han Solo pauses.

 

“What?” Ben asks, perking up with curiosity. “What was the last thing you remembered?”

 

To his surprise, his father grins mischievously. “Never mind. That's private, kid.”

 

_Okay, so something to do with Mom. Gross._ “Fine,” Ben says grumpily, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don't want to know anyway.”

 

His dad's grin widens before vanishing, replaced with serious thoughtfulness. “ _Anyway,_ this … this was kind of like that. Being helpless. Being trapped inside myself. Knowing there was danger, not being able to fight it. Knowing you were in trouble, not being able to help you. Not even being able to help myself. So basically, Ben ... what I'm trying to say is, this whole separation ain't exactly been much fun for me either. I came all the way back from the damn netherworld to yell at you; what's the point if you can't hear me?” He tries to smile again, almost pulls it off, but not quite. And in that moment, Ben Solo understands something about his father, something that he never understood before.

 

_My dad's afraid of being weak. Just like I am._

 

He doesn't know what to do with this knowledge, exactly … but he possesses it now, and he understands it, and it's important to him. It rattles around inside of his ribcage before settling in and he holds this shared flaw, this interior sameness, close to his heart. It's always been there but he just didn't know it, and now that he's acknowledged it … it's harder for him to hate himself. It feels too much like hating Han Solo, which is something he was never as good at as he wanted to be, and something he can't do anymore. Even if he wanted to.

 

“What caused it, do you think?” he asks his father. “And what … what made it stop?” He wants to know, he needs to know, so that it will never happen again. For both their sakes. _I thought something bad happened to you, I thought you were gone forever, I was so scared …_

 

Han Solo laughs, though. “You're askin' me, kid? This Force stuff is your arena, not mine. I think it's like old Kenobi said … you're stuck to me, Ben, and I'm stuck to you. And when it mattered, when you needed me, you were able to help me get back to you.”

 

“Well, _I_ don't know how it works,” Ben says irritably. “And that still doesn't explain what was keeping you away in the first place.”

 

“You were tired, Ben,” his father reminds him lightly. “You were hurt. Maybe you just needed to rest before you could get me back again.”

 

“So it was my fault.” _My weakness._

 

“Hey, now, that's not what I said!” There's a note of panic in Han Solo's voice, followed by a pause that seems to stretch the length of days. "Maybe the Force figured you could use a break from your old man.” The levity is his father's tone is forced; there's pain, not mirth, in his eyes. “Obviously I wasn't being much help anyway."

 

Those words make no sense to Ben, and he cocks his head, studying his father suspiciously. "What are you talking about?"

 

His father makes a scoffing noise; when he looks at his son, he wears a wounded expression and hurting, haunted eyes. “Dagobah, Ben. Remember?”

 

Oh.

 

Ben blinks, a little stunned as he's reminded how low he was willing to sink: to goad Rey into ending his life. With vivid clarity, he remembers every detail of that desperate fight and its aftermath. He knows that he will remember it for as long as he lives, and yet … already it seems far-away, like it happened years ago instead of a matter of days.

 

Han Solo, though, looks as though he has just watched the whole ugly thing unfurl before his eyes: people he cares about in danger, nothing he can do to save them or to stop it; his advice gone unheeded, his hopes burning to ashes before his eyes, his cries unheard.

 

Ben has known that his father would eventually confront him about this, but he didn't know how bad it would make him feel. How guilty. How ashamed.

 

“Right,” Ben says dully in response. “That.”

 

His father leans forward, his gaze dark and piercing and intent. “What in the ... what were you _thinking_ , Ben?"

 

Ben closes his eyes and keeps them closed; it's easier that way. When he speaks, it's little more than a whisper.

 

"I was thinking ...” He pauses, then releases the rest of the words in a jumbled mess. “I was thinking that everything would be better for everyone and everyone would be safer and happier if I were gone ...”

 

“If you were dead, you mean.” There's an edge to Han Solo's voice, though he's not yelling. Ben can't bear to open his eyes and see the look on his father's face. He doesn't want to witness the proof of how, even after killing his father, he's still capable of hurting him. Hurting people, particularly people who for some inexplicable reason care about him, is all that he seems to be capable of.

 

“Right,” he replies tonelessly. Blooms of muted color swirl around on the backs of his closed eyelids, and he tracks their progress without interest. “If I were dead.”

 

“How could you … how could you think that, Ben?”

 

“How could I _not_ think that, Dad?” Frustration roughens his voice, and he puts his face in his hands, trying not to fly off the handle again. _Focus on the words, just get them out._

 

“I've never made anything better in my entire life,” he breathes, finally. “Everything I've ever done, ever, has been wrong. I … I destroy everything I touch and hurt everyone I c-care about or even come near and I'm still doing it, I don't want to but I'm still doing it, Dad, I can't stop, I'm wrong, I'm wrong, I'm _wrong_ and I can't be right and the world would be better off without me, I know it's true, you know it's true, don't you dare try to tell me it's not true ...”

 

“It's _not_ true. The world would _not_ be better off without you, Ben,” his father says sharply. “Look at me, kid. Open your eyes and look at me.”

 

He does, even though he doesn't want to. There's something in his father's voice that won't be argued with, that must be heeded. And when he actually looks, he doesn't see what he was afraid of in his dad's eyes. He doesn't see disappointment, or disgust. Instead he sees a version of the same look he saw on Han Solo's face when he died. That day, he didn't understand what it meant, but he recognizes it now. The care, the love, the sorrow. The immortal hope.

 

“The galaxy needs you,” Han Solo tells his son, gruff and certain. “Your mom needs you. Chewie needs you. Rey needs you.”

 

_For now,_ Ben thinks glumly. That's even assuming that he manages to be of any use to any of them. He can barely keep himself from falling apart from one second to another; what if he can't manage to help when he's needed? What if he just keeps on failing, and failing, and failing, the way he always has?

 

“I didn't … I didn't think that then,” Ben stammers, trying to make himself understood. “I just didn't feel like I c-could live with wh-what I've done. And do you want to know s-something?" His voice is thick with tears now, his chest and throat tight with a pain so real it has become physical. "I st-still f-feel that way.”

 

For once, Han Solo doesn't have an easy answer for that. There _is_ no easy answer for that. Ben just keeps talking because he can't stand it anymore, because he's been holding so much back, because all of these words have been building up inside of him for so long and he's been waiting for his father to come back so he can say them.

 

“I st-still don't have any idea what I'm doing,” he chokes out. “How I'm g-going to go on like this. I don't see how anything is ever going to get any b-better." Some tears spill from the corners of his eyes; he scrubs at them with the back of his hand, and laughs a watery laugh.

 

"This is too hard. I wish … I wish I could just ..." He half-sobs and half-smiles, while his father watches him with deep concern. "I wish that I could just be with you."

 

“Oh, kid.” Han Solo sighs. He looks tired, and so sad that it makes Ben ache.

 

"I don't want you to be with me, Ben," his father is saying now. “Not for a long time, anyway. I want you to live; I want you to _want_ to live, understand me?"

 

Ben smiles weakly as he meets his father's eyes. "It's not that I don't want to live, Dad," he confesses. And it is a confession, because he's ashamed to admit it: that after every awful thing he's done, he thirsts for goodness: that after all the misery he's caused, he longs for happiness. He doesn't deserve it at all, but … "I do want to. I want to live, but I… I don't know how."

 

"Well, kid," his dad tells him solemnly, "it ain't too late to learn."

 

Ben chews his lower lip, considering. "I hope not," he murmurs.

 

“I'm serious,” his dad insists, leaning forward, a gleam in his eyes. “When I was your age I didn't know a damn thing, but in my mind I was the slickest, sharpest guy in the galaxy. Found out the hard way that wasn't the case.” He grins ruefully and shakes his head. “Point is, at least you _know_ how much you don't know. That's half the battle, right there.”

 

Ben can't help but laugh at that, his earlier hysteria transmuted into humor. It's odd, but laughing makes him feel better: a little bit stronger, a little bit steadier, a little bit lighter. And when his dad's eyes crinkle at the corners and he starts laughing too, that sense of lightness increases, elevating something in Ben's spirit that he thought was too far gone to ever be revived.

 

When the sudden burst of shared laughter peters out, they're both left sitting idly on their respective bunks. It's quiet in the cabin, a peaceful feeling in the wake of so many difficult words. The quiet eases Ben, steadies his heartbeat, weights his eyelids. He thinks he might just fall asleep again, until Han Solo speaks up once more.

 

"I am so sorry, kid."

 

Alert once more, Ben tilts his head in confusion. "For what?"

 

His father's brow is knitted, his mouth turned down at the corners, and he's hunched over, chin resting on his hands. The look he wears is one of bone-deep weariness and soul-sickening shame: a look that Ben knows well from his own mirror, though he's never seen Han Solo wear it.

 

"I … I failed you, Ben,” his father says miserably. “I failed you.”

 

_Which time are you referring to?_ It's a mean, bitter thought, and he pushes it away. Ben's heart has gone tight and pained in his chest again, and he says nothing.

 

Han Solo's frown deepens, and sadness wells up dark and heavy in his eyes. "I'll be the first to admit that I wasn't much of a father when I was alive,” he says, driving home his resignation with a half-hearted smile. “But when I … when I got to come back … I thought, okay. Here's a second chance. I'll be there for him this time, I'll do it right, I'll do better, I'll _be_ better. And instead ...” Han Solo shakes his head in disgust. “I didn't make anything better. Not a damn thing. Maybe I even made it all worse. You could have died, Ben; worse than that, you thought that you _deserved_ to die, and it's … it's my fault. It's my fault...”

 

The ghost chokes up and hides his face in his hands, hunching over even further like he's trying to crush the pain inside himself. Ben is unsettled and fascinated, his heart in his throat; he can neither interrupt nor look away.

 

A muffled, humorless laugh emerges from behind Han Solo's hands. He looks up, and the twist at the corner of his mouth is the bitterest alternative to his usual smile. “You think you're the one who's wrong, Ben?” he says, his voice thick. “It's me _._ Day you were born, I held you in my hands – you were so damn small then – and I thought: _Great, what am I supposed to do with this kid?_ And you … you looked up – your eyes were barely open yet, but I swear you looked right at me, like you already knew me – and after that everything made sense. I was made to protect you, to look out for you. I had to be the one to keep you safe ... I was meant to keep you safe and instead …” His father's shoulders shake, his composure shattering.

 

Ben has never seen his father cry before.

 

“I'm sorry, Ben, I let you down and there's no excuse for that but I'm so damn sorry ...”

 

"Dad, _stop,_ ” Ben breaks in urgently, his eyes stinging, his heart full.“Just … stop.”

 

His dad does, surprise on his grief-ravaged face as he stares at his son. Ben struggles for breath, for words. This is surreal … how many times over the years has he cursed Han Solo's name, blamed him for everything unpleasant he ever experienced, held him accountable for each of his own shortcomings? And now that his father sits here trying to take the blame, to shoulder the guilt … Ben can't bear to let him do it. Does his father deserve blame? Maybe. Ben doesn't know. What he does know is that he doesn't want to see his dad in pain.

 

"You're wrong,” Ben says fiercely. “You didn't ... you didn't fail me. You …” He swallows hard, and looks his father in the eye, his soul in every word he's speaking. “You saved me, Dad."

 

Han Solo's mouth trembles, and he shakes his head, smiling faintly. "You saved yourself, kid."

 

_Did I?_ Ben wonders. "Maybe,” he allows, “but I wouldn't have done it if it wasn't for you. I couldn't have done it if it wasn't for you. And I still can't ... so please, please, Dad ... don't go away. Don't leave me again."

 

The ghost rises and crosses the cabin quickly, sitting down right next to Ben on his bunk. Ben does not edge away from him.

 

"Okay," Han Solo murmurs, nodding reassurance, warmth in his eyes. "Okay. Long as you need me, I'll be here."

 

"Thank you," Ben whispers, closing his eyes as utter relief washes through him.

 

“Sure thing, kid.”

 

Ben relaxes, his body slumping, his shoulder brushing against something solid and sturdy.

 

Alarmed, he jerks upright, opens his eyes wide and turns to stare at his father, who looks every bit as stunned as Ben feels, neither of them able to make sense of what just happened.

 

Han Solo is, quite obviously, not alive. There remains a dull glow about him, a vagueness, a wispy quality to his outlines and yet ... if Ben doesn't focus on it, it fades away, becomes unimportant. Now that he's paying attention, his father looks vivid and lively in a way that a ghost simply is not supposed to look.

 

_You're imagining things,_ he chides himself, but if he's only imagining it, then … how can his father feel it too?

 

Ben had drawn his shoulders up in alarm, his back gone tense and tight and rigid, but now he forces himself to relax again. And as before, his shoulder bumps against his father's: seeming as solid and real as if he were there in body, not just in spirit.

 

"Well, damn," Han Solo mutters, his face brightening with astonished glee.

 

Ben couldn't speak if he wanted to. Right now, he can barely even breathe. Maybe he's lent his breath to his father; maybe that's why he can feel the gentle press of Han Solo's shoulder against his. Maybe that's why, when his dad slowly slowly raises a hand to brush a stray curl of hair off his son's face, Ben feels that, too.

 

"H-how ..." Ben tries to ask, but the question dies on his lips.

 

His dad tucks Ben's hair behind his ear, patting the unruly, sleep-mangled curls into place. He smiles, laying his hand gently against Ben's cheek, and he's as warm as a living person would be. "Does it really matter how, kid?"

 

No, Ben supposes it doesn't really matter how his father's ghost has become able to interact with the physical world. It doesn't matter how and it doesn't matter why. What matters is …

 

… _a second chance … I'll do it right … I'll be better …_

 

The last time that Ben Solo ever touched his father, he was nudging his broken body into an abyss. If there's anything he can do to exchange that final moment for a different one …

 

… This will not fix what he did. It won't cross it out or erase it. But that doesn't mean, he thinks desperately, stubbornly, that he can't try.

 

Ben wraps his fumbling fingers around his father's wrist, anchoring himself to the moment, trying to be brave. The sleeve of the nerf leather jacket the ghost wears has just the right texture; faded and familiar. Ben almost thinks the ghost even has a scent; even if reality has not done the trick, his memory supplies it: soap and engine grease and sweat and caf and trees …

 

“D-dad?”

 

Han Solo clasps Ben's hand in a strong, sure grip. “I'm here, Ben. I'm right here.”

 

Ben tries not to break; he really does try. But he can't stop the quivering of his chin, and he's seeing his father's face through a haze of sudden tears, and everything that's happened in the past few weeks ... so much has happened so suddenly and it's all coming back to fall on him now and he feels it all, really truly feels it all at once and _it's so much, it's too much and I can't hold it all I can't hold myself up under the weight of the good the bad and everything in between I can't do it …_

 

… but then, he doesn't have to. Because he isn't alone with it anymore.

 

_He came back for me. Dad came back for me._

 

His father had come back for him once before, on Starkiller Base. The first time around, walled up behind darkness and rage and pain and lies, he had been unreachable. This time, he is the one who reaches out.

 

Ben's hands find the front of his father's jacket, his shaking fingers clinging to the rough material, half-afraid it will dissolve at his touch. But it doesn't; it stays; Han Solo is still there, in spite of every reason he should not be. Something inside of Ben caves and crumbles; he's punched full of holes and light is shining through him and there's no holding himself together anymore.

 

When he falls forward, his dad catches him, wrapping him in a tight embrace.

 

“Hey,” Han Solo says in a low voice, gruff but soothing. “It's all right now, kid. You're okay. I gotcha, Ben. I got you.”

 

Ben Solo tightens his hold on his father, buries his face in his shoulder, and bursts into tears.

 

He sobs and sobs like he's never going to stop; quite honestly, he doesn't know if he's ever going to be able to stop. Tears blind his eyes and clog his throat and Ben tries to muffle the sound of his sobs against the ghost's shoulder, but he won't be muffled. Through the violence of his weeping, Ben feels a long-lost sensation, stronger than memory: a kiss dropped on the top of his head, a rough hand tousling his hair.

 

“It's okay, Ben,” his dad tells him. He pats Ben's back over and over again, the repetition soothing. “It's okay.”

 

It isn't okay, though, nothing can ever make it okay, and Ben just cries harder at that. Han Solo's arms are strong and safe and his chest rises and falls as if he were really breathing and Ben can almost believe he hears his father's heartbeat. But he's the one who silenced it forever.

 

“Dad … Dad, what'd I do?” He chokes on guilt and grief, his voice breaking. His heart is breaking too, yet again, bringing fresh agony with every beat. “What'd … I … _do_?”

 

“Shh.” His dad squeezes him in a hug. “Don't … don't think about it right now, okay? We can't either of us change what happened in the past. It's done, Ben, and we're here now. Just stay with me, kid. Be here with me.”

 

“O-okay,” Ben manages to agree. His fingers are starting to go numb, so he adjusts his hold on his father's jacket and curls more closely into his embrace. It's not easy; he has to scrunch himself up, make himself small. “Okay.” He gulps for air, steadies his breath and before he can stop himself he stammers out “Dad … I'm sorry ... I'm so sorry, I ...”

 

“I know,” Han Solo says, resting his chin on the top of Ben's head. “Me too.”

 

Ben shudders a sigh of unexpected relief. His apology … it's so feeble, it's just words; it won't change anything that's happened. And yet the very act of saying it, just the knowledge that his father heard and believes him, seems to have had some power over him. The pain in his chest and throat from crying is starting to feel like the edges of a crooked, fault-lined heart pulling itself slowly, inexorably back together. So much, Ben wishes he could just leave it at that: drop the heavy weight of his guilt and leave it behind him once and for all, but he can't. There is more that needs to be said, much as he doesn't want to. He's about to admit it, the thing he vowed never to put in words. If his father is willing to take the blame for things he did wrong, Ben has to accept his own.

 

He lifts his head, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand until his vision clears just enough. His dad looks at him bemusedly, half-smiling, but his eyes are still clouded with concern. “What is it, Ben?”

 

“It's that you … you ...” He shakes his head, biting back a sob and blinking back more tears. “You died for _nothing_ ,” Ben mourns, hating the truth of it, hating himself for making it true.

 

Remarkably, his dad's expression clears and light sparkles in his eyes, a grin tipping the corners of his mouth.

 

“You're wrong.” Han Solo tells him in a calm, matter-of-fact way. There is so sadness in his clear eyes, no resent, no regret. Only love. “Not for nothing. I died for you, Ben.”

 

Once more, Ben's eyes well with tears that obscure his vision. There are no words for how he feels, only a surge of tangled emotion so powerful it shatters him and repairs him all at once. All he can do to express it or release it is to throw his arms around his dad and hold onto him as tight as he can. So that is what he does.

 

For the longest time they both just stay like that, wrapped in a hug, not speaking, not needing to speak. The past and the future, for the moment, have both been set aside. These moments of quiet understanding are all that matters now.

 

“I did … I did miss you, you know,” Ben admits after awhile, his voice muffled against his dad's shoulder. It's more true than he can possibly say. He's spent most of his life missing his father, feeling so cut off from him it was a like a wound in his heart that was always sluggishly bleeding. In fact, he'd spent so much time missing Han Solo that he didn't think he would miss him any more when he was dead. Like about everything else, he was so incredibly wrong.

 

“I missed you too, Ben,” his father says, his voice soft but heavy with the weight of every separation: every slammed door, every space trip that stretched from days to weeks, and then the despair of the past fifteen years, the darkness of the stars when he thought he'd lost his son forever. “I missed you so damn much.”

 

Ben pulls back and manages a smile; catching his reflection in Han Solo's eyes, he sees that he looks both childishly gleeful and fiercely unstable, his smile crooked, his eyes too bright. “It's okay now, though,” he says, testing the words. They don't crumble under scrutiny, there is strength and intention behind them, so he keeps going. “We're okay. You're back now. Everything is going to be all right.”

 

His dad nods, his crooked grin mirroring Ben's. “Damn right, kid. I mean, look at you! You just kicked Snoke's ass, you realize that?”

 

“I didn't think … I didn't think I'd be able to make him stop,” Ben murmurs, a bit dazedly. It still seems like something out of a dream … he can still hardly dare to believe that he accomplished it at all.

 

"You did it, though," his father reminds him. "You pushed Snoke out. You got rid of him. _You_ did that, Ben." His voice is warm and rough with pride.

 

"He'll just come back," Ben says glumly, his happiness beginning to fray at the edges, to crumble like ashes in the wind. Despite his dad's cheerleading, he knows very well that this victory is a temporary one. Snoke's access to Ben's innermost thoughts, has made up the fabric of his reality since before he can remember. He's numb to the knowledge that he will never really be free until Snoke is dead. "He always comes back."

 

"Huh," Han Solo says cocking his head to the side. His eyes flash with a hint of anger, and the steely shine of determination and resolve. "Well, so do I."

 

And the thing is, possibly for the first time, Ben really believes him.

 

He's opened his mouth to say that, or something like it, but the door of the cabin slides open abruptly, and Chewbacca steps into the room, his bulk seeming to fill it up. Ben and Han both are frozen, and the Wookiee halts in mid-stride, his eyes widening, his head tilted in confusion.

 

Ben wonders, feeling panicked, what Chewbacca sees or hears. To him, does it look like Ben's lost it completely, talking to himself?

 

"Ah, hey, Chewie," Han Solo says brightly and almost sheepishly.

 

Ben's stomach twists and his cheeks prickle as shame starts to creep back in on him. "He can't see you, Dad," he murmurs out of the corner of his mouth.

 

Chewie howls indignantly.

 

Ben's jaw drops. "What … what do you mean, 'the hell I can't?'"

 

Han Solo starts laughing, throwing his head back. Getting to his feet, he holds out his arms. "Come on, get over here, fuzzball."

 

With a roar of delight, Chewie darts over and grabs the ghost in a crushing hug.

 

Ben had been holding his breath, afraid somehow that the Force would fail and render his father wispy and insubstantial again. When it's obvious that the ghost holds up under the weight of a Wookiee's loving embrace, Ben lets his breath out in a sigh of relief. It's right and good for the two of them to be reunited, but the sight of it still makes him ache, knowing he caused the separation in the first place, knowing things will never truly be the same again.

 

Suddenly he's aware that the ache in the pit of his stomach isn't just from guilt. He's hungry in the extreme; his stomach feels like it's gnawing on itself for lack of other nourishment. His dad and Chewie are laughing and talking and he can't hear what they're saying over the growling of his own stomach. Moving slowly and quietly so as not to draw attention to himself, Ben slides to the edge of his bunk and sets his feet on the cold floor, shivering a little at the sensation, and he slowly stands.

 

This turns out to be a mistake; his head swims and he stumbles, and of course his dad and Chewie are quick to notice, both of them reaching to steady him, Chewie groaning with concern.

 

"You okay, kid?" his dad asks him.

 

"Yeah," Ben mumbles, embarrassed at being the center of their attention. "Just hungry. I think I'll go get some food."

 

Chewie says not to be silly, to sit back down and he'll bring Ben something to eat, but Ben insists. Grabbing the crumpled heap of black cloth that turns out to be his sleeveless undershirt, he tugs it over his head. "I'm sick of this room. Besides, you two ... you ought to talk."

 

"You sure?"

 

"Yeah, I want to ..."

 

"Lemme guess. You want to see Rey, don't ya?" his father asks, grinning slyly.

 

"D-a-a-d," Ben groans, reddening to the tips of his ears. His dad laughs and reaches out to muss his hair, and Ben doesn't pull away. And when Chewie yanks him into a group hug, he knows it would be useless to try. Finally he's released from the tangle of bone-crushing affection, and his dad gives him a playful nudge toward the door.

 

"Go on, kid," Han Solo tells him, winking. "I ain't going nowhere."

 

"I know," Ben says, managing a smile for his dad and Chewie before staggering out into the corridor and heading for the kitchen. Rey must be in the cockpit right now, he knows that. But even though he does want to see her, he also doesn't. At least, not on an empty stomach.

 

In the kitchen, he assembles himself a hodgepodge meal from whatever his hands happen to land on. A couple packs of crackers later, his brain starts ticking again, however sluggishly. He's still sleepy though, perhaps from drugs lingering in his system, so he brews himself some caf, drowning it in creamer and sweetener. It doesn't give him the shakes this time, so that's good.

 

Ben takes his time with his meal, not just because he's not capable of moving very fast right now but because he knows he needs time to come up with a plan, and planning has never been his strong suit. He can't just go up to Rey and act like nothing's happened. The last thing he did to her before being drugged into sleep for however many days was scare her out of her wits. He made her a witness to yet another one of his lowest moments, and while that shames him for his own sake, it also shames him for hers. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her any more than he already had. It's another thing he must try to make up for, somehow. Somehow.

 

His heart is beating hard and he feels dizzy with anxiety at the thought of facing her. To delay the inevitable, he reaches out, feeling for the presence of the girl at the Falcon's controls.

 

She doesn't know that he's awake; she hasn't sensed him yet at all. All of her senses right now are dulled by exhaustion. She hasn't been sleeping ... she's anxious and worried and angry and sad. Since he's only skimming the surface, just sampling her energy rather than invading her mind, Ben doesn't know what's causing these feelings precisely. But if there's anything he can do to help alleviate them ... he knows that's what he's meant to do. And he wants to.

 

He hasn't even come to a conscious decision when he sets to work, his hands knowing what to do long before his brain catches up. Before long, there's a cup of steaming tea and a plate with a small assortment of cookies arranged on it, and Ben's left carrying them towards the cockpit with shaky fingers, wondering why he feels more scared now than he ever did before walking into a battle.

 

_May the Force be with me,_ he thinks with wild humor. Taking a deep breath, he steps into the cockpit.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: hmmm i really need Ben to get a hug from his dad but idk if that's how the Force works  
> wookiepedia: that's exactly how the Force works  
> me: (becomes the living embodiment of that flaming Elmo gif, you know the one) 
> 
> (ahem) anyway, I would like to dedicate this chapter to astropixie, for being the best, and for challenging me to climb down from my throne of excuses and finish this chapter. I love you, friend <3


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How can he make her understand?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'alls comments on the previous chapter added like a thousand years to my life. i love you all so much <3

All that's there to meet him is resounding silence.

 

Rey, stiff as a sculpture in the pilot's seat, doesn't even turn her head at Ben's approach. Her awareness of him is marked only by the tightening of her jaw, the hitch in her breathing, and the sharp point of anger that jabs through the Force between them.

 

Instinctively Ben halts just inside the cockpit, the brunt of Rey's anger spreading through him, dissolving in his cells. It feels like cold, numbness, aching ... it feels like something he's felt before, somewhere he's been before … _Supreme Leader's audience chamber …? …_ but _**NO**_ _it's not that place, it's the Falcon, it's safe, it's home._ Ben forces himself to breathe deeply, but the sound of it hanging in the air seems loud and obnoxious. All of a sudden his hands are trembling, making the cookies rattle on their plate and the hot tea slosh slightly over the edge of its mug, almost spilling on Ben's bare foot.

 

Rey doesn't even seem to notice. She's sitting in dimness, illuminated only by the lights from the ship's console, her soft-booted feet pulled up into the chair with her, her arms folded across her chest. She's folding in on herself, hunched over, her chin set, her eyes glaring out the viewport in front of her. The shadows that lay across her face make her look stern and tired all at once. Ben can feel the hard shell of Rey's anger; he doesn't even have to try to sense it. It's all around her, like armor … but it's a faulty armor, weak, lined with dents and cracks. Ben knows a thing or two about faulty armor.

 

It won't take much pushing to break it, and that's what he intends to do.

 

A lot of seemingly impossible things have already happened today. If he can make amends with his father, then he can surely make things right with Rey again. He's just got to _do_ something, got to get through to her, to smash her silence before it swallows both of them.

 

“H-hey,” Ben says at last. His voice is weak and cracked from all the talking, all the crying he's been doing since he woke up. The sound of it makes him flinch; he can only imagine how pathetic he must sound to Rey …

 

Her set chin trembles but that's the only way he knows she even heard him. For several strained moments he thinks she's not going to answer at all. Finally Rey speaks, her voice as raw as his, but hard-edged, unyielding, distinctly unfriendly. “Hello.”

 

 _This isn't really going according to plan._ Rey's “hello” sounds more like an invitation to take a flying leap into an active volcano. Stung, Ben bites his lip and shifts from foot to foot, but he's not going to be discouraged that easily; he can't. It's not in his nature to allow himself to be ignored, and even if it were … there's no way he's walking out of here. Rey's presence has a visceral pull on him and now more than ever, he needs to be where she is. Caught in her gravity, he closes the distance and falls into the co-pilot's seat, setting the dishes on the console in front of him, and steals a glance at Rey.

 

Her face is still pointed straight ahead, her features hardened into a mask. The effort of maintaining it is tangible in the Force around her, scraping and crackling like an ice storm out of season. Ben's skin prickles and he curses his short-sightedness in not putting on a shirt with sleeves. Self-consciously, he rubs at his upper arms and shoulders, as much to cover the scars as to get rid of the goosebumps. Still, he resists the urge to run away.

 

“I brought you some tea,” he says.

 

“I'm not thirsty.”

 

“But you ...”

 

She snaps, her armor cracking further. “If I wanted tea I would get it myself. I don't need you ...”

 

“Of course you don't,” Ben mutters, tearing his gaze from Rey's profile. The silence that falls between them is uneasy, bitter. To his surprise, Rey is the one to break it, her voice quieter and more careful than before.

 

“I didn't mean ...” She pauses. “Forget it.”

 

He doesn't forget it, but he doesn't pursue it either. Not yet. Instead, he settles back in his seat, his eyes following the track of Rey's gaze out of the viewport. They must be on course to Luke Skywalker now. The Falcon is sailing smoothly through the stars, and their light is a brilliant, breathtaking thing: so close, so lovely, so impossible to touch.

 

“It's beautiful out there,” Ben observes, and immediately longs for a garbage chute to jump into, or even that hypothetical active volcano. Talking about the stars … how idiotic can he possibly sound? It's all he can do not to hide his rapidly reddening face behind his hands.

 

“I suppose so.” Rey's tone is empty and forbidding, once more irresistibly recalling the chill of Snoke's audience chamber no matter how hard Ben tries to push the thought away. It feels like there's a stone in his throat, or possibly that his brain has turned to stone, because it isn't working at all. She's just so angry, and she's angry at him, and he doesn't really even know why. And he's so afraid, afraid he'll say or do something else wrong, and if he does … well, he has no idea what will happen. This is new and dangerous terrain for him. He doesn't know how to preserve relationships, only destroy them.

 

But that's not true, not anymore. Ben thinks of his dad's smile, his embrace, and the strength and will that had been faltering in him are renewed, revived. _Things are going to be different now; they have to be._ _ **I**_ _have to be. So I will._

 

Ben looks away from the stars and turns all his senses on Rey.

 

What he finds makes him worry. Weariness is written all over her, woven through her, as if it's become too much a part of her to ever be eased away. Rey's brown hair is messy, unkempt. At some point it was braided but now it's escaping in clumps, flyaways sticking to her forehead, curling wildly around her face. Her clothes are rumpled as though she's slept in them, except that she hasn't been sleeping. Violet stains pool at the inner corners of her eyes and spill out into the faint hollows beneath, and her lashes tremble as she struggles to keep her eyes open. Her aura has a bitter taste.

 

“What are you looking at?” Rey all but snarls, startling Ben out of his observations. And yet her eyes remain fixed on the stars, all her irritation released in her white-knuckled grip on the armrests of her seat.

 

 _Why won't you just take it out on me? Why won't you even_ _**look** _ _at me, Rey?_

 

Unwanted … it's not a new feeling for Ben Solo, far from it. It isn't something that gets easier, though. It hurts and it rankles now more than ever. And maybe, not so long ago, it would have proven too much for him, would have dragged him into darkness and made him unable to question it or fight back against it. But he's fighting it now.

 

“You … you're tired,” he says softly.

 

She bristles, biting out her response. “What is your point, exactly?”

 

“You should go lie down,” Ben suggests. “I can take over up here. The autonavs are on; I won't do any harm.”

 

For a moment, she seems to consider his offer. The armor caves in a bit at the edges, her tensed shoulders beginning to slump … but then she draws herself together again, wrapping her arms around her knees, and shakes her head. “I like it up here, thanks.” There's no gratitude in her tone. “You can leave if you want.”

 

But he's staying … out of spite or stubbornness or both, he's not sure. “I like it up here, thanks,” he echoes snarkily.

 

Instead of flaring up at his taunt, Rey sighs heavily and lets her eyelids droop closed. Yet she's no closer to sleep than she was before. Her restless, negative energy haunts the cockpit, refusing to subside.

 

This leaves Ben at a loss. Rey doesn't want to talk, but he _has_ to talk to her. He needs to tell her: about Snoke, about the threats he made, and about pushing him out. And he needs to tell her about Han Solo, to let her know he's back; that will mean the most to her, that will surely make her happy …

 

… but Ben doesn't say it, not yet, because he's selfish, and he wants to keep it to himself for just a little while longer, and because … he doesn't want Rey to start talking to him again because of Han Solo.

 

He wants her to talk to him because of _him_.

 

“Want a cookie?” he blurts.

 

Success at last. Something breaks, the armor falls, and Rey whirls in her seat to stare at him in astonishment. “No,” she says rather breathlessly, looking at him like he's once and for all lost his mind. “I do _not_ want a cookie.”

 

“Fine,” Ben says, shrugging, and nudges the plate into the air with the Force, making sure that she can see it. “More for me.”

 

“Okay, _fine,_ give them here,” Rey demands, reaching out her hand. Just before her fingers can brush the edge of the plate, Ben uses the Force to yank it away, bringing it close to his chest. Rey pulls her hand back, watching him with narrowed eyes.

 

“I don't think I feel like sharing after all,” Ben tells her, a smirk beginning to tug at the corners of his mouth. “If you want them, you have to come and get them.”

 

Rey's glare could melt durasteel. “I am _not_ in the mood for this, Ben Solo,” she growls. “And if you think that withholding the cookies from me is going to make me _less_ angry with you, you're very wrong.”

 

His heart leaps. _Now we're getting somewhere._ “If you're going to be angry with me,” Ben says passionately, “then _be_ angry with me.”

 

“I _am!_ ”

 

“Then _do_ something about it!”

 

Rey shakes her head, looking at him with mingled incredulity and annoyance and something … something like sadness. “You're right, I am tired: too tired to fight with you. Give. Me. The. Damn. Cookies.”

 

“Fine,” Ben grumbles. The aggressive playfulness he was feeling ebbs away, leaving him with embarrassment, foolishness, and guilt. “Don't forget your tea.”

 

Rey, grabbing the plate and then the mug out of the air, mumbles something as she settles back in her seat.

 

“What was that?”

 

She takes a bite of cookie, then a sip of tea, and only when she's done with that does she answer him. “I said, how's your arm?”

  
“It's fine.”

 

“And your head?”

 

“Not perfect,” Ben says honestly. “But … better.”

 

She nods, and it's strange but after that, something eases in her expression, in her energy. She remains angry, she remains frustrated, she remains exhausted, she remains sad. But everything has been muted slightly, taken down a level. Ben doesn't know why, but he's grateful for it. And he wants to make Rey feel better. Any way he can.

 

Ben turns in his seat so he's facing Rey directly. His heart is twisting in his chest, and his stomach is sick with nerves. She could easily reject what he's about to offer, but he has to offer it anyway, and run that risk. “Rey. I'm sorry.”

 

Rey balances the plate of cookies on her knees, and raises the cup of tea to her face with trembling hands. "You'll have to be a little more specific, Ben," she murmurs.

 

He lifts his eyes to her with difficulty, and it takes all his will to hold her gaze. "For ... for doing what I did in front of you. You were frightened; I know that. I knew it then, and I didn't stop. It was … wrong of me to make you see that. I'm really … I am sorry.”

 

Slowly, Rey nods. “Okay,” she says, and turns back to her tea. But it doesn't seem okay. And Ben doesn't feel forgiven.

 

“I'm sorry,” he says again, desperation creeping up inside of him, lodging and aching in his throat.

 

“I heard you.”

 

Ben cocks his head and studies her with dismay. “You're still angry with me.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“But I apologized.”

 

Rey looks over at him, and he can feel her frustration and hurt as clearly as he can feel his own. “It's not that easy, Ben!”

 

But it _isn't_ easy, not for him. Can't she see that? How can he make her understand?

 

Maybe if he just keeps pushing her, makes it so she has to react, has to confront him …

 

“Rey … you want to hit me, don't you? I know you do. I know I deserve it ...”

 

Rey's shaking her head now, gripping her mug too tightly, her knuckles white. “Anger leads to hate,” she murmurs under her breath: hollow words, a hollow teaching.

 

“But you said you couldn't hate me anymore,” Ben whispers, fear like needles jabbing into him, all over him. It's a dizzy, sick feeling. “Did that change, Rey?”

 

Rey shakes her head again, more firmly, but it's not enough of an answer. She's starting to scare him, a deep-down, cold fear in the pit of his stomach, in the marrow of his bones. It borders on panic, like he's watching her slip away, becoming just another distant point of light, ever-present, ever-gone. He needs to know that she's still with him, he needs to know that she's still in this, whatever this is …

 

“Rey, please ...”

 

She whirls to face him again, sudden and sharp. “Stop it, Ben! Stop using me to punish yourself! I'm not going to hurt you; I don't do that to the people I care about. Besides which, you seem to be doing a good enough job h-hurting yourself. What do you need me for?” As before, anger launches her words, but something shivers at the core of them. Something vulnerable small and hurting that she's trying to protect, as best she can. Despite the fact that it may already be too late.

 

 _The people she cares about._ Implying that … he's included in that number.

 

Ben is abashed now, giddy with the knowledge that Rey cares at all about him, sick with the knowledge that he doesn't deserve her care. Every inch of him is flushed with shame, all of his scars seeming to sting and burn. “I … I'm going to try not to do that any more,” he stammers out. He doesn't know he's going to say that until it's too late to call the words back, but the thought of the pain in his dad's eyes makes it inevitable. In his heart, he knows that he can't continue treating himself with hate when he's grown accustomed, once again, to being loved.

 

Rey seems taken aback by his words, the fire in her eyes dying down. “What … what are you going to do instead?” she asks him dubiously. She knows as well as he does that he has to do something, that he can't just stop hurting himself when he's been relying on pain for so long.

 

Ben's heart is thudding and his head is light. “I don't … I don't know. I'll think of something.” This is a promise he simply doesn't know if he can keep, a commitment that he has no idea how to stick to, and yet, reckless as ever, he's making it anyway. But it's helping Rey to feel better … he can _feel_ her feeling better … so it must be a good thing to do, right? Even though he's terrified at the thought of it.

 

“That's … good,” Rey says finally, setting her empty teacup aside and wrapping her arms around herself again. “I'm glad.”

 

“My dad … he's back.”

 

Rey doesn't look surprised, but she does smile, joy warming her face, _finally._ “I knew he would be.”

 

Ben's heart pangs but he keeps going. “He's with Chewie now, but I know he wants to see you ...”

 

Rey nods, still smiling slightly, but she only shifts in her seat and doesn't leave. “I wouldn't want to interrupt them. He's here to stay, right?”

 

“Yes,” Ben says fiercely.

 

“Then I'll see him later.”

 

“Snoke was here,” Ben blurts. Apparently he's not capable of letting a happy moment be happy, but neither is he capable of keeping that encounter, neither the horror nor the victory of it, inside any longer. Rey's face falls, but she doesn't seem totally surprised by that revelation either.

 

“What happened?” she asks quietly, her hands tugging restlessly at her jacket, pulling it more securely around herself.

 

He relates the incident to her clumsily, editing his account very carefully in one regard. There's no way he could ever be induced to tell her what Snoke said about her, not the way he said it. Her eyebrow quirks and he thinks she probably knows he's keeping something back, but for whatever reason, she doesn't press him.

 

“He's gone now, though,” she says when he's finished, her eyes wide and fixed on him. “You made him go away.”

 

“Yeah. I did. But ...”

 

“... but he'll be back,” Rey finishes Ben's thought with grim resignation. He's sorry for that, but he can't help but be grateful that she understands, that for the first time it really feels like _somebody_ understands the sheer inevitability of Snoke, the horror of what he's capable of.

 

Ben just nods.

 

After that, Rey lapses back into silence again. Ben can't take it for long. He gives her as much quiet as he can, trying to derive some calm from the view of the stars, but he's too restless, too on edge, there's too much that's still floating, undealt with, in the air between them. He looks over at Rey, opens his mouth …

 

“I know what you're about to ask, and yes,” Rey bluntly tells him. “I am still angry. I can't just change how I feel, Ben. Why won't you just leave it alone?”

 

“Because,” Ben tells her, with soft and brutal honesty, “I can handle you being angry with me and trying to kill me. What I _can't_ handle is you sitting there being angry with me and not even doing anything about it.”

 

Rey blinks at him, her eyes going wide and incredulous. “You do realize how … utterly perverse that is, right?”

 

Ben shrugs. “Maybe, but it's how I feel. I can't just _change_ how I _feel,_ Rey.”

 

The corners of her mouth twitch, ever so slightly, before she forces them down into a scowl, wrinkling her nose at him. “Well, I'm not going to get out my lightsaber and start swinging it, if that's what you're hoping for.”

 

“Well, there go my plans for a relaxing day,” Ben quips.

 

Rey presses her lips together, stubbornly wrestling back her amusement. But Ben's own smile quickly fades as he becomes aware of what's missing. That cold, panicky feeling crawls in his veins again as his hands tighten to fists. “My lightsaber … where is it?”

 

Rey tucks a stand of hair behind her ear and rests her chin on her knees. “Chewie took it. We … we didn't know when you'd wake up, or what kind of mood you'd be in when you did. I thought that you might … I didn't want you to burn yourself.”

 

Ben's torn. Should he thank her, for looking out for him like that? Should he give in to the impulse to jump up, run to Chewie, and demand his weapon back?

 

Han Solo might not be in the cockpit of the Falcon right now, but Ben can hear what he would say just as clearly as if he were sitting there. _Seriously? That junky glow-stick is what's important to you right now? Forget about the saber, kid. Talk to Rey._

 

Well, there's some sense in that. He's been telling himself that he's stupid for not noticing his weapon's absence until now, but the reason he didn't, of course, is because it's not important. Not as important as making things right with Rey.

 

"You … you drugged me," Ben mumbles, a frown dragging down the corners of his mouth as he thinks out loud.

 

"Technically, Chewie drugged you," Rey reminds him, rubbing her eyes wearily, "but yes, I helped him. We didn't know what else to do, Ben. It was either that or watch you slam your head into walls repeatedly, so ..." Rey's voice trails off and she shrugs.

 

Ben shakes his head. The memory haunts him now … it's hard to remember how much pain he was in at that moment, and it's even harder to know that he caused Rey and Chewie pain as well. “Don't … don't worry about it. I would have done the same thing."

 

"Would you?" Rey studies him with a gleam in her eye, mischievous and merciless at once. “I would have thought you'd take a more _forceful_ approach to rendering someone unconscious.”

 

Ben chokes, his face turning red at the thought of their first meeting, and how that had gone down. Her fear, and what he'd put her through, what he'd made her endure …

 

 _She will always think you are a monster, Kylo Ren._ Snoke's taunt echoes in his head, momentarily freezing him with horror …

 

… but that's not true, is it? It can't be true, because would Rey still be sitting here with someone she thought was a monster? Would she care about a monster, try to help one? And she has helped him, helped him even when he least deserved it, even when she still had ample cause to fear and loathe him … she has shown him kindness, mercy, compassion instead.

 

And for all that he has felt, all that he carries in the light and shadow of his heart … how much compassion has Ben Solo shown Rey?

 

“I'm sorry,” he tells her, fervently, trying to apologize for every wrong he's ever done to her all at once, but especially the most recent ones. “Rey, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I wasn't … I … I wasn't thinking ..."

 

Between them, something flares up fiercely, fire started by a lightning strike, and in an instant Rey is burning.

 

"Oh, I'll say you weren't thinking," Rey snaps, the color rising high in her cheeks. Leaning forward in her seat, she angles her body towards his, her gaze locked with his, confronting him at last, giving in to her feelings. "What if you'd broken your skull or something, Ben? What would I have told your mother?"

 

Ben pales. That thought had not even occurred to him. "I'm sorry ..."

 

"Do you know what that would have done to Chewie?" Rey continues, her voice rising in pitch and speeding up, her hands clenched in fists at her sides.

 

Ben blinks back sudden tears. “I'm sorry ...”

 

"And what about me?” Rey's saying now, shaking. “What would I do if you were gone, Ben?"

 

He stares at her, dazed as if by a punch. "I'm sorry ... I don't know what ..."

 

"The storm, Ben!” Rey shouts, jumping to her feet so she's looking down at him, her eyes blazing, her pupils blown wide. "The storm that your grandfather said was coming? Remember? Remember we have the same dreams, the same destiny? I d-don't want to walk into that storm alone, Ben; I _can't_. I'm not brave enough, I'm not strong enough, I'm not ready. You _know_ that! We're supposed to do this together, you said that yourself! If you left me … if you left me alone with this, Ben Solo, I'd just ..." Rey's sentence breaks off with a cracked sound, her eyes shining and blurred. Quickly she turns away from him, hiding her face in her hands.

 

 _She’s crying,_ Ben realizes, his heart as hollow as a drum. _I_ _made her cry._

 

It's not the first time, but he's never felt worse about it than he does right now. He's shaken, sickened when he recalls more of Snoke's words, when it really hits him for the first time: that there might come a moment when he is the only thing standing between Rey and the Supreme Leader.

 

What if that moment came and there was no one left to stand between them?

 

What if Rey - her powers newly awakened, still mostly untrained - had to stand alone before the power of the darkness?

 

Self-loathing blooms like a toxic flower in Ben's heart. Closing his eyes, he allows himself just a moment, just a heartbeat of indulgence in it, before he stomps it down and returns his focus to Rey.

 

Even with her back to him, it's obvious that she's trying to fight her tears. It's not messy, not a flood of hysteria. Instead Rey's weeping is a silvery, shuddering thing and her shoulders only quiver, they don't heave. She's trying so hard to hold back, and the fact that she's almost succeeding only makes it worse. She doesn't want him to see her cry right now, any more than he wanted to see her to see him slam his head into a wall, but it's happened now and there's nothing either of them can do about it.

 

Ben stands up, moves to stand in front of Rey. She stiffens, sensing him there, but her only movements are the twin tremors of her shoulders, the harsh struggle of her breathing.

 

"Rey ..." Ben whispers, reaching for her. She persists in hiding her face behind her hands, and his fingers brush uselessly at her wrist. "Rey, don't cry, don't ... you're not alone, you're not. It's okay, it's okay ..."

 

"It's not!" Her voice is muffled from behind her hands. As Ben's fingers lock around her wrist, the barriers between their minds drop down ... not by Ben's choice, but by Rey's.

 

_family gone han dead finn hurt left behind HIS fault even bb-8's not here and master luke's still far away ben and chewie are all I have what if ben was gone too no no not again don't want to lose anyone else it's too much it's too soon can't go through it again WON'T go through it again doesn't he get it why doesn't he understand how can i make him understand ..._

 

Ben takes a shuddering breath, his eyes welling in response to her pain. "Rey ..." He doesn't know what else to say. It is his fault; she's right about that. He's cost her a lot in the short time they've known each other. He's not going to allow himself to cost her anything else.

 

Tangling his fingers with hers, he gently tugs her hands away from her eyes. She blinks up at him, not angry anymore, just sad, just scared, just wanting more than anything not to go back to being that lonely scavenger girl who lived on scraps and knew no one's companionship, had no one's protection, but her own.

 

Those days are over.

 

“I'm not going anywhere, Rey,” he swears to her. Another reckless vow, but this one he knows he'll keep, because he has to keep it, because the alternative is unthinkable. “I'm here and I'm not going anywhere. We'll do this together. We'll face the storm together, we'll face Snoke together, and we'll kill him together. I promise you, Rey, I am _not_ leaving you alone with this.” He's still a bit shocked that it even matters to her whether he lives or dies ... but then, in her shoes he'd feel the same way. He'd want help from the person who'd dealt with Snoke before, even if that person was as awful as he is.

Rey's lip trembles, and a stray tear spills down her cheek; her hands are hot and sticky in his. She looks up at him, and there's something between them: a silvery thread of understanding. First woven in that interrogation room on Starkiller, then refined on Dagobah … it's been growing stronger ever since, and now that it's been pulled taut, been tested, and hasn't broken, it's truer than ever. Now, it's name is trust.

 

Rey steps closer, squeezing Ben's hands, then releasing them, and before it can hit him why she would come closer only to let go, she's already wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder.

 

Ben thought that he was getting used to hugs, but he's completely caught off guard by this one. He freezes, too surprised for his mind to even process the sensations properly, and he just stands there like a puppet with no one pulling his strings, loose-limped and wooden and useless.

 

Then “I promise too,” Rey whispers, and Ben can feel her breath on his neck and shivers even though he's not cold. “I'm not leaving you alone with this either, Ben. You have my word.”

 

He hasn't really breathed since Rey put her arms around him. Now, all of a sudden, he can breathe again, and his arms rise and enfold her, like he knows what he's doing, when really he has no idea. All he knows is that in that moment, hugging her, holding her … it feels like the only right thing to do. He has no words, all he has to offer are his scarred arms and his killer's hands, but for now, at least … it seems to be enough.

 

It takes a while, but finally Ben feels himself relaxing, settling into the hug. He pats Rey's back in a comforting fashion – at least he hopes it's a comforting fashion – gingerly resting his cheek on the top of her head. She allows this, tucking herself more securely into his embrace, and speaks softly.

 

“Can I tell you something, Ben?”

 

“Of … of course,” he mumbles.

 

She shifts against him restlessly, and he can sense it … her fear, resurfacing: a buried corpse, revealed by shifting sands. “It's not … it's not a good something.” Her voice is hushed. “It's very, very bad, in fact.”

 

He squeezes his eyes closed tightly. Dread slugs him. “Tell me.”

 

Rey's arms loosen, her hands sliding down as she starts to pull away, but her hands end up on his shoulders, sliced with moon-pale scars.  Her hands freeze in place and Ben flinches.

 

"Sorry," Rey mutters, her hands balling into fists in the front of his shirt instead.  

 

Ben's face is hot, but his vanity is the least of their problems right now. “It's okay, Rey. Just … just tell me.”

 

“You said that he would come back … Snoke.”

 

A roaring starts in Ben's ears, and he holds Rey tighter ... to shield her, to be shielded by her. “Yes.”

 

Rey takes a shaky, watery breath.  Ben sees his own reflection in her eyes and what's there is fear, stark fear.

 

“I think … Ben, I think ... he already did.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> snoke is why we can't have nice things


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Keeping secrets never did anybody in this family any good, Rey.”

The moment of this confession hangs frozen between Rey and Ben: fragile as crystal, suspended in air.

 

The spell breaks, but _they_ don't. Ben and Rey are both still standing: scared, shaken, but okay. The ship remains whole and real around them, holding them safe in the vacuum of space, even as they hold each other.

 

“He's not here anymore,” Ben carefully says. “He's not here now.”

 

Rey shakes her head, stray wisps of her hair flying. A little bit of the tension leaves her. “No. He's not.”

 

Both of them sigh, almost at the same moment, and Ben touches the frayed end of Rey's messy braid where it hangs over her shoulder. "What happened?” he asks quietly.

 

Rey's fingers dig into Ben's shoulders, making his skin prickle with awareness. She doesn't seem to know what to do with her hands, which is fine, because he doesn't know what to do with his either; in the end, they both just stay right where they are: uncertain of the world around them, barely certain of one another … but still holding on, in spite of all that.

 

When Rey finally speaks, her voice flutters out of her half-frantic, like a bird unsettled from its nest. "It was ..." She pauses, her mouth twisting as she struggles with her words. “It was a nightmare.”

 

Oh, well then. Ben's become something of an expert on nightmares. _Maybe there really is something I can do to help her._ "In the nightmare … what did you see? What was it like, I mean ...” He trails off, catching himself; what if she doesn't really want to tell him? What if he's just pushing her too hard, making things worse?

 

But he needn't have worried. Rey's brow furrows and her lips press together, leaving them flushed with color when she speaks. "It was dark ... and cold,” she murmurs. “Everything was so … so empty, but so heavy at the same time. I felt like … like I was suffocating. I was floating loose in space and I … I was all alone. There was nothing and there was no one, and I felt as if I'd been there forever, and I would always be there, always alone ...” Rey squeezes her eyes shut. “It was awful,” she whispers.

 

“Yes,” Ben agrees, just as softly.

 

“I wanted to… to die, but I couldn't. I thought I'd lose my mind,” Rey goes on. “Lose myself. I _wanted_ to lose myself, because at least then I wouldn't know I was alone. But then, just when I thought that, I wasn't alone anymore. I felt a … presence, and then a ..." Rey sways slightly on her feet, and tosses out the rest of her sentence as if the words taste bad. "A touch. It touched me."

 

Ben's stomach turns over, his throat going tight and painful. He feels as cold and sick as Rey looks; her eyes screwed shut, her face uncommonly pale, she shivers slightly with remembered cold, remembered fear. "Touched you how?" Ben barely manages to ask.

 

"A hand against my face," Rey murmurs. Her eyes are still closed, and all her words are soft and carefully measured. _She sounds_ _like Uncle Luke when he used to tell me ghost stories,_ Ben thinks, taking another sickening stumble into the pit of memory. "It felt so real. It patted me, my cheek, my hair ... but I didn't know who they were, what they wanted. I tried to pull away, but ...” Rey sucks in her breath and her eyes fly suddenly open, wide and wild, staring up into Ben's. “Pain,” she says, her voice hone oddly flat. “There was pain all over me and through me, this cold pain. Beating in my head, blood in my mouth …” She swallows convulsively, shakes her head, more hair pulling loose from her sloppy braid and spilling over her face, casting her drawn, tired features into shadow.

 

“Rey,” Ben starts to interrupt, urgent, trying to stop her, to tell her she doesn't have to say anymore _this is hurting her I should never have asked in the first place she shouldn't have to go through this not again_

 

Rey unsticks her sweaty palms from Ben's arms to tug at his shirtfront. “It's okay. Let me finish.” Her voice is strained, her fingers are shaking, and the hollows beneath her eyes are deep and dark enough to die in, but her jaw is set; she's determined to see this story through to the end. And he is determined to listen. So Ben bites his lip and nods, acquiescing and hating every second of it. Rey steadies herself with a quick breath and soldiers on, talking faster now, wanting it over.

 

"It was everywhere,” she says. “The pain. Except for where it ... he … was touching me. It was the only thing that didn't hurt, so I … I leaned into it. I needed it. But part of me ... must have still been fighting. It hurt me to pull away, but I knew I had to, so and I did, and it was awful but then I … then I woke up.” Rey's voice is thick and watery with relief. Ben feels the knot of pain in chest loosen ever so slightly, making breathing easier.

 

“I've been awake ever since,” Rey says after a moment. “If I sleep, he might come back, and I don't want it to happen again. He didn't say anything but I know, Ben, I _know_ it was him."

 

Ben only nods.

 

Rey's eyes drift shut, and she bows her head. The two of them share a moment of understanding, of resigned horror.

 

“Did you tell Chewie?” Ben asks hoarsely, though he thinks he already knows the answer.

 

“N-no,” Rey says at once, without raising her face or opening her eyes. “I didn't want to bother him.”

 

A strained and painful silence falls. They both know what she really means: she was afraid to tell Chewie what was happening in the dark spaces in her mind. Not because he wouldn't care but because he wouldn't understand, not because he wouldn't want to help but because he wouldn't be able to.

 

_But I can help her. I have to._

 

Words war with each other on the tip of Ben's tongue, but none of them seem right, none seem like enough, and many of them taste like lies. How is he supposed to tell Rey that everything's going to be all right when he doesn't believe it himself?

 

All the strength, the hope that he had felt before is withering, like a flower choked out by darkness, deprived of light. His banishment of Snoke feels like a hollow victory now. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have actually believed that he had won? The only reason Snoke left Ben alone is because he already had what he really wanted: his claws in Rey's heart, his poison in her mind.

 

 _And it's my fault,_ Ben thinks numbly. _It's my fault._

 

Badly shaken, Ben can't keep his powers in check, and even though he didn't reach for them, Rey's thoughts tear through his mind like a hailstorm.

 

 _He's going to pull away from me now, I know it … how could he stand to be near me after this? He won't want to hold me anymore, surely ... and it was … damn it, it was_ _ **nice**_ _… to be held._ The thought of impending abandonment twists and tears at Rey, but the pain is not the worst of it. The worst part is her resignation, how she accepts that she will always be left alone. Or maybe the worst part is the wistfulness, how she knows that she will spend her whole life longing for something she believes she'll never have …

 

But it never even occurred to Ben to let go of her, never crossed his mind to run away. He's not afraid … his hearts stutters … okay, so maybe he is afraid, but not enough for it to matter. There is something that matters so much more.

 

His fear knows hers, is kindred to it. He knows what it's like, to be tainted by the invisible touch of a monster. He knows, all too well, what it's like to be a thing that others fear, even the people who were supposed to care for him. He knows what it's like to be fled from when all he wanted was to be held close.

 

They've been standing mushed together in this awkward proximity for so long that it sort of hurts to move, but move he does. Ignoring the part of him that wants to run screaming from the room, the part of him that says this is a bad idea, the part of him that still hisses _compassion is weakness_ …

 

… Ben hugs Rey tighter, his arms folding around her, his fingers weaving through her tangled hair so that he's cradling her, his cheek coming to rest on the top of her head.

 

She tenses up in his arms, tightens her grip on the front of his shirt. “You … you heard ...”

 

“I didn't mean to ...”

 

“No, don't … it's okay,” she breathes. The tension leaves her body, and her head settles against Ben's chest as her arms rise to wrap around his middle: tentative at first, then more securely.

 

 _This is crazy,_ Ben thinks. _I'm dreaming this._ But he's not. He knows it's real, that's what makes it so crazy. Surely there are going to be some consequences for this. Surely things will fall apart at any moment?

 

But they don't, not yet anyway.

 

“I was scared to tell you,” Rey admits in muffled tones. “To tell anybody.”

 

“Snoke … that's how he works,” Ben murmurs: husky, haunted, thinking out loud. “Making you think you can't trust anyone. Making you afraid, making you ashamed. It's how he … gets you alone. Makes himself the only thing you can count on, like in your nightmare. He lies.”

 

“I won't make that mistake again,” Rey says, passion in her tone, edging out the fear as she looks up at him.

 

“You can always come to me, you know,” Ben tells her. “I'm sure there are other people you'd rather talk to, but … well, I'm here.” He wants to wince at the sound of his own words, how pathetic and half-hearted they sound, but it's only the truth. He isn't Luke Skywalker, and he isn't FN- … _Finn_ , and he isn't General Leia Organa. But he is here.

 

But Rey doesn't seem to care about any of that, not right now, anyway. She's all sincerity when she answers. “I will. If it's really okay with you, I mean, if you want me to ...”

 

“I do,” Ben says, his breath ruffling Rey's hair. “I said we'd fight Snoke together and I meant it. This is part of that.”

 

Rey nods, a momentary fierce expression on her face. “Right.” She pauses, hesitates, and Ben picks up on a flicker of emotion coming from her that he can't identify; they've stepped slightly apart but they're still embracing, and it's a bit sweaty and awkward but he doesn't know if he's supposed to let go yet or if she wants him to or if she's getting ready to ask him to let go or what how do people who hug decide to end the hugs what is he supposed to do …

 

In the cockpit doorway, someone coughs.

 

Rey and Ben jump apart like they've both just caught fire, facing the intruders.

 

Han Solo is leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, beaming cheekily and looking far more at home among the living than a ghost ought to. Chewbacca stands behind him, a look of very poorly concealed amusement on his furry face.

 

“Um, sorry to interrupt,” Han says with remorseless cheer.

 

“Sure you are,” Ben mutters under his breath, running a hand through his hair and looking at the floor.

 

“What was that, kid? Didn't quite catch it.”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Uh huh.” His dad winks at him, then turns to Rey, who looks as stunned as Ben felt, the first time he saw his father again after Starkiller. Stunned, but a whole lot happier than Ben had felt. “Long time no see, Rey. You been taking care of my ship?”

 

Rey smiles, her eyes bright with a sheen of tears, her cheeks apple-red. “Han, you're here! I've been … well, I've been trying. I still have a great deal to learn, though.”

 

“Chewie tells me you're doing just fine,” Han Solo says, taking an approving glance around the cockpit. Chewie nods and groans confirmation in the background. “But what about you? How are you doing?”

 

“Good,” Rey says, too quickly. Ben shoots her a furtive look. Rey doesn't miss it, and neither do Han and Chewie.

 

“Something you wanna mention, Rey?” Han asks.

 

“No! I mean, no, not really.”

 

Ben can't help but feel stung. Of course she would be willing to tell _him_ about her encounter with Snoke; his regard isn't that important to her. Certainly not as important as Han Solo's is. She doesn't want to risk looking weak in front of him, dead or alive.

 

His father looks at him next, his gaze keen and assessing. Ben bites his lip and looks at the floor. Right or wrong, he won't betray Rey's trust.

 

Han and Chewie exchange all-too-familiar knowing glances. Ben was on the receiving end of that more than once as a boy. Now, Han and Chewie turn those knowing looks on Rey. Han crosses his arms over his chest, frowning slightly. This strikes Ben especially because he recognizes this look so well. As a child, he would have thought it was judgment, disapproval. Now, he knows that it's concern. Care.

 

“Keeping secrets never did anybody in this family any good, Rey,” Han Solo says.

 

 _This family._ A strange feeling, heavy but not sad, settles in Ben's chest, and he turns his suddenly stinging eyes to look out the viewport at the chaos of the stars.

 

When he looks back, Rey's eyes are shiny and her lower lip is trembling. “Not so good,” she admits quietly. She sounds as exhausted as she looks, as exhausted as she is.

 

“You wanna talk about it?” Han offers.

 

Rey bites her lip for a moment, then shakes her head. “Thank you, but … I already did.” She shoots Ben a quick look, and he holds her gaze for a moment before nodding back.

 

“No offense, but you look a little ...”

 

Chewie whines to indicate “bad.”

 

“Oh,” Rey says, looking flustered, “that's just … because ...”

 

“She hasn't slept in three days,” Ben blurts.

 

Rey gives him the dirtiest look she can muster. “Thanks a lot.”

 

“Anytime.”

 

Rey allows Chewie to raise a fuss about this, raising his voice and waving his hands, insisting that she get some rest immediately …

 

“All right, all right, Chewie! I'll just go use the fresher and then I'll sleep. Only … can I sleep up here? My bunk is … cold,” says Rey.

 

 _And empty,_ Ben thinks but doesn't say.

 

“You don't need to worry, Rey,” Han Solo says, with kindness and easy confidence. “Everything's gonna work out.”

 

 _How would you know that, Dad?_ It's only a little resentment, and Ben shrugs it away like an ill-fitting garment. It's not a lie, it's a promise. He's made the same promise himself. The more people who are trying to keep it, the more likely it is to become true. Probably.

 

“I hope you're right,” Rey says softly, smiling at Han Solo with grateful affection. The ghost pats the back of Rey's hand, and Ben feels his own fingers twitch in an odd reflex.

 

“Oh, I just remembered,” Han says, raising his eyebrows. “I didn't get a chance yet to say thank you, Rey.”

 

Rey eyes dim with bewilderment. “I … thank _me_? For what?”

 

Han Solo's spectral face breaks into a wide and lively grin. “For keeping my son's dumb ass alive on Dagobah, of course.”

 

Rey's expression clears, and she giggles, slapping a hand over her mouth to contain the unexpected mirth. Chewbacca makes no such effort, and his huge frame quakes with hilarity. Ben frowns at all them, especially his dad, but grumpy isn't how he feels.

  
He feels like, maybe, everything's going to be okay.

 

“You don't have to thank me for that,” Rey says earnestly, after she's collected herself. “Really.”

 

“Well, I wanted to,” Han insists. “Chewie and me are … we're just really glad to have him back.”

 

Ben turns red, and his eyes start watering again.

 

“I'm glad, too,” Rey answers, quietly, and Ben blinks furiously while his face and ears go up in flames.

 

“Okay, okay, enough mushy stuff,” Han mumbles, still grinning. “You go take care of yourself, Rey. We'll keep an eye on things up here 'til you get back.”

 

Rey smiles, a smile wide and bright enough to include all three of them, and starts to leave … but she stops suddenly in the doorway and turns back.

 

“Oh, Chewie,” she asks. “I was wondering. How … how much longer until we reach Master Luke?”

 

Two more light days,is what Chewie says. This doesn't sound quite right to Ben. “So … so soon?” he stammers, hoping they'll all mistake his panic for simple confusion.

 

Rey looks back at Ben with an innocence that isn't feigned. “Did I never tell you? He told me he wants us to meet him on Yavin Four.”

 

Ben's heart drops to the pit of his stomach. His skin prickles and his limbs go numb and he feels like he might vomit. Yavin Four. _Not there,_ he thinks. _Anywhere but there._

 

Aloud, he says nothing, just nods, as Rey turns and walks out of the cockpit. But on the inside, he's raw and raveling, coming apart at seams that were only just starting to mend.

 

_Can't go back not there never there I told myself I would never set foot on that planet again and now I have no choice just like Luke Skywalker he's doing this because of me isn't he he's trying to teach me a lesson like he's still my teacher well he's not I don't need this I LEARNED my lesson Uncle Luke I know what I did I know what I am and I'll never be you so can't you just leave me ALONE …_

 

“Kid?” his father asks him quietly, putting a hand on his arm. “You okay?” Ben jolts back into reality and a circle of concerned stares. His racing thoughts slow to an ebb, and the sickness passes, just an undercurrent in his dirty blood.

 

“Fine,” he murmurs, the lie bitter on his tongue. He can't meet his father's eyes because he knows he doesn't believe it, and Ben can't stand the thought of another confrontation so soon after their most recent one. Enough old wounds have been opened for one day. “I'm fine.”

 

But Ben Solo, of all people, ought to know that saying something over and over doesn't make it true.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FRIENDS. I am so, so so sorry it's been so long since I updated and this chapter is so relatively short. I'm sorry it took a very heartbreakingly sad thing happening IRL to make me get my shit together and FINISH this chapter. Life has been ... well, I don't have to tell you. It's been a difficult year, but the experience of this story has been one of the best things about it for me. So I thought it would be nice to end 2016 with an update. I thought I had something more deep and profound to say but I don't, so ... Happy New Year to all of you. I wish everyone the very best and I hope you have fun reading <3


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The past will make a ruin of you, Ben, if you allow it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (um so before we get started here i just wanna say ... i first started writing this fic a year ago. i had no idea where it was going, i just had a lot of feelings. i sure as hell never thought i would make it to chapter 20, but here we are. if you are reading this, i absolutely love you, and i hope you like this chapter). <3

Ben fully expects his father to start peppering him with questions the second that Rey is out of earshot, but Han Solo doesn't. Instead he slumps his shoulders, sticks his hands in his pockets, and sweeps the cockpit with a gaze that can only be described as wistful. Chewie takes the helm, and Han eyes the pilot's seat and then abruptly looks away as if he can't quite stand it: being in this, his favorite place, his ship, but unable to fly her, ever again … unless he borrows Force energy from the son who killed him.

 

The very solid, very steady floor seems to lurch beneath Ben's feet, and his stomach grows leaden with the familiar feeling of inescapable guilt. In his mind, he hears the angry hum, sees the fiery flashing and feels the wild heat of his lightsaber, alive in his hand. He lives again in the blur of the murder scenes he has wrought across the galaxy, but mostly he's pulled between two of them: the catwalk on Starkiller, his father's body falling ... and his first, oldest crime: that night when the Jedi school went up in flames and he painted his soul in the blood that he will never be able to wash out.

 

The darkness of the memories rush over him like an ocean wave: powerful, inexorable, dragging him down. He feels like he can't breathe, nor does he especially want to. He's so cold when reality returns and he finds his feet again: old and shaking, half-hunched over against the agony.

 

His father's hand is gripping his shoulder, still solid though not as strong as Ben remembers. "What's the matter?" Han Solo asks, keeping his voice low.

 

"It's nothing," Ben lies, his voice even lower, almost frail. "It's just cold in here. I'm going to go get a jacket." They both know he's lying and Ben is well aware that his dad is going to drag the truth out of him eventually, but right now he needs to get out. The cockpit feels too small, too close. He needs to retreat, to remember what breathing is and why it matters. His dad nods, pats his shoulder once, and lets him go.

 

Ben lurches from the cockpit and back into his bunk; it feels like he left it years ago instead of a couple of hours, but there's the cracked old jacket right where he threw it, and the rumpled red scarf too. When he puts the jacket on, it tears, a seam rending and opening beneath his left arm, letting the cold air in. With a growl of frustration, Ben takes the jacket off, crumples it in his hands, and throws it as far as he can. It hits the wall and lands on the floor with a feeble noise, looking pathetic, like the ghost of the animal that died to make it.

 

Ben reaches for the pile of blackness at the foot of the bed and pulls out his old, threadbare cloak. It's raveled and singed with the smoke of countless battles, and it's rough and scratchy, the texture of it unkind to his skin, but he doesn't care. It fits him, and it covers him, and he can pull the hood over his head and seclude himself in its shadow. He does so, drawing an uneasy breath.

 

There's something rising up in him, something rotten he thought he'd buried, something bad and wrong that he never wanted to feel again. But of course he should have known he wasn't free of it.

 

 _I'll never be free of it,_ he thinks, with the sensation of horror like a dull knife being shoved in his throat. _I'm going to be in pain for the rest of my life._

 

It's only fair. He's sowed plenty of pain across the galaxy, that he will also reap it should come as no surprise and no injustice. But that doesn't make the knowledge, the bloody certainty of it, any easier for him to take.

 

Ben rests his forehead against the nearest wall. It's cold and hard and uncomfortable and it clears his mind enough for him to seize a thought and focus on it, even as he seizes his lower lip between his teeth. If he has to be in pain, shouldn't at least be pain that he chooses?

 

Where has Chewie hidden his lightsaber? _Just one good burn,_ Ben thinks. Or he could take one of the blunt, bent old knives from the kitchen; surely no one would miss one knife. Just a few small cuts, somewhere no one would see ...

 

_... keeping secrets never did anybody in this family any good ..._

 

His father's words ring out clear in his head, clear and very true. His secret is out; his father and Chewie and Rey all know about it and they've all made it very plain to him that they're not okay with him hurting himself. And he had said that he would try to stop.

 

 _You only said you'd try,_ he reasons. _You_ _ **did**_ _try. You just failed, that's all; it's nothing new. They wouldn't even be surprised. At least if someone finds you bleeding, they'll have to care …_

 

Even as he has the thought, Ben rejects it. Only today, he sat with his father and told him the truth and he can't shake the memory of Han Solo's face ... he can't be responsible for making him look that way, not again, and especially not so soon.

 

But everything just hurts so much, and it's only going to get worse. This is an extreme situation, doesn't that warrant the use of extreme measures? Maybe if he hurt himself again, they wouldn't make him go to Yavin Four. Maybe Rey would take pity on him, change her mind and change their course ...

 

 _No, no, no, no._ Ben shakes his head furiously, tugging handfuls of his hair, his breath loud and lonely and ragged in the empty silence of his bunk. Rey doesn't need another problem right now. She wants to see Luke Skywalker; she wants to get to him as quickly as possible. She thinks she needs his guidance. Ben doesn't think that Luke Skywalker's guidance is worth a damn when it comes to Snoke. But Rey thinks it. And Ben promised to help her. It's too soon for him to fail her now. He'll have to think of something ... some way to get himself through this, make it out on the other side ...

 

But thoughts fail him, nothing comes to mind, he's scared stupid and the terrible pressure inside of him can only be released through some kind of self-torture, he has to hurt himself he needs to ...

 

 _... go ..._ something inside urges him. A voice he has heard before, only in a dream …

 

Ben goes utterly still, listening. Listening to his grandfather's voice.

 

 _Go, Ben,_ Anakin Skywalker urges him _. Go back to your father. Don't be alone. If you're with him you won't do anything stupid, so go to him. Now._

 

Slow and stumbling, Ben obeys. His feet carry him through the Falcon's familiar corridors, and his hands sometimes have to reach out, brace and steady himself against the walls, but he goes. He goes, and he makes it back to the cockpit, and he settles in the nearest chair, and wraps his arms around himself tight so that his hands can do no damage. He tries to recall the memory, so recent, of Rey's arms around him.

 

From the Force, he feels warmth, and he closes his eyes for a moment, and lets it soak in.

 

Chewie is staid and steady in his place at the helm, and Han Solo lingers near, ghostly fingers resting close to the controls, hovering there for just a moment before he pulls them back and turns around to look at his son. "Better?" he asks.

 

Ben nods, a little surprised to find it's true. He tugs his cloak closer about his shoulders, tucks his sock feet up into the chair with him, pulls his knees up against his chest.

 

"Feet off the chair, kid," Han says automatically, his eyes sparkling.

 

Ben snorts and stares at him. "Are you serious?"

 

His dad raises an eyebrow, half-smiling. Ben shrugs, sighs, puts his feet back on the floor. He uses his toes to push the chair as far around as it can go before letting it lurch back into place again. The repetitive motion of the swiveling seat always used to soothe Ben on long space trips ... he remembers that now, from a lifetime ago. Maybe his dad remembers too, and that's why he pretends not to see it.

 

For a while they're quiet together, the three of them. In a few minutes Rey returns with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, the scent of flower soap preceding her into the cockpit. Her cheeks are scrubbed red and her hair is still damp, and she walks slowly, with a shambling gait, blinking heavy eyelids and staring at nothing. She yawns hugely as she settles into the seat across from Ben's, and when she pulls her feet up into the chair with her and curls in on herself under her blanket, Han Solo says nothing.

 

Rey shifts, rests her cheek against the headrest of the chair and pulls her blanket up so it covers her neck. She looks over at Ben, briefly, and he wonders if her eyelashes have always been that long. Her exhaustion has only intensified since their earlier conversation; he can feel it from where he sits. But there's still something scratching at her, something that won't let her rest …

 

"It's okay," Ben tells her, very quietly. "You're safe here. Go to sleep, Rey.”

 

The corners of Rey's mouth tip up in a tiny smile, and her eyelids drift shut. She's asleep in seconds.

 

Ben can feel the change in the air once Rey's truly resting: there are no nightmares plaguing her right now. The strangling knot of fear and loneliness and shame that she had been carrying around with her has come undone as she sleeps, leaving stillness, calm, peace in its place. And Ben tries to reach it, to feel that peace, but he can't. He's restless and there's no way he can alleviate it right now; it's the kind of restlessness that can only be quelled by jumping off of something high, or blasting out into hyperspace, or ... fighting with a lightsaber.

 

He could knock Chewie out and take the controls. Set a new course. He might be a sorry excuse for a pilot but he could make it, probably. Some other planet, any other planet than Yavin Four. Of course neither Chewie nor Rey would ever trust him again, but that hardly matters, does it? Once they see them next to Luke Skywalker ... once they remember who and what he really is, all the ways in which he has failed at being Ben Solo ... it'll all be over for him anyway.

 

Ben tries to keep his breathing quiet, so as not to attract attention to himself. But it's growing harsher, and by the time he's put his hands over his mouth to muffle the sound, it's too late.

 

Chewie turns to glance at him over his shoulder, dark eyes scrunched up with worry, and Han Solo's ghost crouches next to his chair, fixing him with a steady, serious gaze. "Okay, Ben. Tell me what's going on."

 

Ben clamps his hands harder over his mouth and shakes his head furiously, blood rushing in his ears.

 

"Are you gonna throw up? You look like you're gonna throw up. You gettin' space-sick?"

 

Ben closes his eyes. "I haven't been space-sick since I was eight years old," he croaks out, still smothering his words behind his hands.

 

"Then tell me what the problem is. Tell me, kid, so I can help you."

 

Ben opens his eyes. His father's face, his sharp but kind eyes ... it gives Ben something on which to focus, something that makes him go still. The soft, steady rhythm of Rey's sleep-breathing in the background helps too, as a focal point that anchors him to the present, momentarily lifting him up from the maelstrom of the past. But only momentarily.

 

Ben brings his hands down to his sides, grips the armrests of his seat. "You can't help me, Dad," he mumbles. "Not with this."

 

Han Solo cocks his head to the side and scowls, looking insulted. "Why not?"

 

"Because you can't change the past."

 

"You're talking in riddles, kid."

 

Ben shakes his head again. Pain is starting to prickle at the walls of his skull, like claws scratching inside his head. "You know where we're going. You know what happened there. You know … you know what I _did_."

 

Quiet answers him. Quiet interrupted by a reluctantly indrawn breath. "Yeah. I know," his father says finally, somber-voiced, somber-faced, his brow heavy, gaze directed at the wall instead of at his son.

 

“So you know why I can't go back there,” Ben whispers, his mouth dry, his voice cracking. “I can't go back to that place. It's … bad.”

 

Han Solo shakes his head. “It's just a place, Ben. What happened there isn't going to happen again. Things are different now. _You're_ different now.”

 

Ben is bitter. “You don't understand.”

 

His father makes a scoffing noise, throws up his hands. “Of course I understand, kid! You're scared, I get that. Do you think I want to go back there, either? To remember what it was like, to leave you there? Or do you think I want to remember coming back there, finding you gone and seeing what you left behind?”

 

Ben flinches and his body goes numb as if he's been physically struck. He couldn't speak even if he wanted to. All he can do is look at his father through the haze forming in his eyes.

 

It doesn't even take a moment for Han Solo to visibly regret his words. He flinches too. “Oh damn, Ben ... I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said ...”

 

“Why not?” Ben asks flatly. “It's true. And I … I deserve it. I deserve to hurt for what I've done.”

 

From the pilot's seat, Chewie lets out a soft groan of denial.

 

Han Solo is quiet for a long time, a look of pain flashing across his face. He puts his hand over his heart, looking thoughtful and distant and almost as lost as Ben feels.

 

“You're my son,” Han Solo says at last. “So I know that makes me biased, and you might just think I'm being too soft on you or something ... But the fact is, Ben, making yourself suffer isn't going to make anything better. It's not going to change anything that happened in the past, it's not going to help you in the future … and it sure as hell ain't doing you any good in the present. So when it comes down to it, I don't really give a damn what you _deserve._ I just … I just want you to be okay.”

 

Ben worries his lower lip with his teeth until he can feel the blood welling just beneath the surface of his skin, and then he stops. He can't meet his father's eyes.  "That's just it, Dad. I've never been okay. And I don't think ... I don't think that I ever will be."

 

He's sorry to say it. He's sorry that it's true. He's sorry that he's disappointing his father yet again. Such a seemingly simple desire, for his only child to be okay. Not wonderful, not outstanding, just _okay._ And Ben can't even manage that. It's too late for him to be okay. Maybe it was always too late for him.

 

He looks down at his hands, which he has folded tightly in his lap, like a man praying. He knows what they've done. He knows what _he's_ done. He can never undo any of it, can never forget any of it. He has to live with all the people who are dead because of him.

 

Into the void ripped into the air by Ben's words, there comes a ripple of serene, familiar energy, a soft glow of blue.

 

"There is no death," Obi-Wan Kenobi says calmly and clearly, as if speaking directly to the younger Ben's mind. "There is the Force."

 

He shows up and he stands there, the ghost in his Jedi robes, and offers up words as a balm, but they're only _words_ and they make Ben angry.

 

“There _is_ death, old man,” he says through gritted teeth. “I would know; I've dealt enough of it. Don't think you can make this better by showing up and spouting some meaningless Jedi bantha shi- ...”

 

“For one with whom the Force is so strong,” Obi-Wan interrupts doggedly, running over Ben's words, “you do not trust it as much as you ought to, Ben. It isn't I who can make things better. It is _you_ , or rather, the Force, _through_ you, that will heal the galaxy. You, and Rey.” The ghost casts a fond glance down at the sleeping girl.

 

The anger drains from Ben, and leaves him empty. _Why do ghosts always have to be so difficult?_

 

“Where have you been, anyway?” he grumbles, surly, not looking at Obi-Wan.

 

“Oh … here and there,” Kenobi says lightly, shrugging his spectral shoulders.

 

Han catches Ben's eye and rolls his as if to say, _Can you believe this guy?_ Unfortunately, Ben can.

 

At that moment, Rey stirs in her sleep, mumbling something low and incoherent. Ben, the two ghosts, and the Wookiee at the Falcon's controls all freeze, no one making a sound, not wanting to disturb the sleeper further. Rey's face looks troubled for a moment, but then it smooths out and she goes still again. The blanket starts to slide off her shoulder and Han quickly catches it and covers Rey back up, patting her shoulder until her sleep-breathing goes even again.

 

"Could you do that, Obi-Wan?" Ben asks, very quietly. It's something he's been curious about, and it's a much-needed change of subject. "If you wanted to?"

 

Obi-Wan's blue eyes are bright and he smiles slightly, his mustache twitching. "I suppose it would be possible," he says, nodding. "I could use someone's Force energy, or have it given to me, in order to influence the living world, as Han does. It was not something I had considered, before ... but then, I do not wish to. I have been with the Force too long. To manipulate the physical world would feel strange to me now. And besides, I must admit that I am glad to be free of physical discomfort, of all the body's aches and pains."

 

_Aches and pains …_

 

Han Solo is uncharacteristically quiet. Ben remembers the sight of him hunched over, his hand on his chest, pain twisting his features … he'd thought it was emotional pain but why would that make his father reach for the place in his chest where the lightsaber blade went through him?

 

Ben doesn't ask for confirmation; he doesn't need to. The pain that he has caused … it lasts beyond death. It goes on and on and on, it is still going on and Obi-Wan is wrong, Force or no Force there is nothing he can do to stop it or make it better, nothing ...

 

"She will need your help to find her way through this, Ben," Obi-Wan is saying softly, his gaze resting on Rey, contemplating her tranquil features. "Now more than ever."

 

Ben puts his head in his hands, threading his fingers into his hair and tugging it restlessly. "I know, I know that … but … but what good can I be to her? I've gone too far, I've done too much wrong to do anything right ...”

 

"What you have done has no bearing on what you _will_ do. Your father is right. The past will make a ruin of you, Ben, if you allow it," Obi-Wan tells him firmly. "The echoes of your actions can stay that way: echoes ringing out inside your head, drowning out the sound of the living Force. Or, you can use what you have learned, let the Force guide you, and make new choices. Better choices. Choices that will ring out louder and truer than those of your past. Choices made of your own free will, not Snoke's.”

 

_My own free will._

 

It's so hard for Ben to trust himself with choices … but he chose to leave Snoke. He chose to ask Rey for her help. He chose to offer her his. He chose to accept his father's love, and forgiveness. And he chose to tell his mother that he was coming home.

 

Even though Luke Skywalker, and Yavin Four, are stops along the way …

 

"If the thought of the future frightens you that much, Ben," Obi-Wan says, with quiet understanding, "then put it from your mind. Day by day, the future becomes the present. So it is in the present you must live. It is the only way will be able to be ..." He pauses, with an inward-looking expression, as if tasting a word for the first time. "... okay," he says finally.

 

Ben closes his eyes, feeling tears struggle at his lashes. He wants to resist Obi-Wan's counsel out of habit, out of his sheer contrary nature, out of the dark parts of his mind that keep trying to drag him down, encourage him to give up. But he makes himself really consider the Jedi's words. And as he does ... he feels the truth of them. Senses it. The constriction in his throat and chest, the heavy weight inside his head and heart ... it eases, somehow, and though the burden is not gone, will never be truly gone ... it has become bearable.

 

Still with eyes closed, he nods. Acceptance. He feels the uplift, the surge of the Force around him, through him. His father takes his hand and squeezes it, and Ben squeezes back.

 

What he has to do, the life he has to live, is never going to be easy ... but it's possible.

 

It has to be possible, because too many people are depending on him for it not to be.

 

\- - -

 

Living in the present is harder than it sounds.

 

The time before they will reach Yavin Four is dwindling rapidly, stars scattering their path seeming to move increasingly faster. Ben is trying to be mindful, to be attentive to each moment as he inhabits it so he can't think about the past, can't be afraid of the future. And, when that fails, he tries to find a distraction. Teaching Rey to meditate will certainly take all of his attention.

 

“You really want to learn this?” he asks her, for the fourth or fifth time. They're both sitting cross-legged on Rey's bunk, facing each other, and even though he wants to be here, Ben's nervous. He hasn't entered this cabin since it became Rey's, and it's amazing how she's managed to impress her presence upon it, with the relatively short time that she's occupied it and the few belongs that she has. It's so undeniably her space: a cluster of delicate dried flowers set in a clay pot, a rough-woven blanket over the bed, her metal staff in the corner, her clothes hung neatly on the hooks. She also keeps a lot of food hidden around. The abundance of food and the absence of tally marks on the walls set this place apart from the wreckage she used to call home, the scavenger's nest that he'd seen in her mind, what now seems like so long ago …

 

… he's not really asking her if she wants to learn. He's asking her if she wants him to teach her.

 

“Yes, I really, really do,” Rey says for the fourth or fifth time, equal parts impatient and amused. But the amusement fades as her gaze goes steely. “You have a place inside of you where no one can go … where no one can get to you. I want to find out if I have that place too.”

 

They both know who she wants to hide from. They don't need to say it.

 

"Well, um … first,” Ben says, “what you want to do is take some slow, deep breaths. Try, um … try to exhale longer than you inhaled.”

 

Rey sucks in air and whooshes it out noisily, much too fast. Ben tries to turn his snort of laughter into a cough, but Rey's not fooled.

 

“Are you laughing at me, you …”

 

“I said _slow_ deep breaths,” Ben points out, his face warm with suppressed humor.

 

Reluctantly, Rey smiles, and shakes her head. “I know. I guess … I guess I'm just nervous.”

 

“Don't be nervous,” Ben says. “It won't work if you're nervous. Remember that everything's okay. Just breathe, for a while. Don't worry about whether it's working or not.” He breathes, deep and slow, in and out, over and over, the way he has always done when it came down to it and he had no choice but to retreat into meditation. It's not as easy, with Rey here, with Rey watching, and visibly audibly palpably trying to match her breathing to his …

 

 _Just breathe,_ he thinks, taking his own advice. _Don't think about anything._ It takes longer than it usually does but there is a shift, a change in the air, something balancing, steadying …

 

“You're doing really well, Rey,” Ben murmurs. “Keep breathing, just like you are, and try to start relaxing your body ..."

 

“Should I close my eyes?”

 

“You can if you want to. You don't have to; they'll probably close eventually without you having to think about it. Once you're relaxed enough.”

 

"Okay, no problem," Rey replies, with determination and good cheer.

 

However, it _does_ turn out to be a problem. Half an hour later, Rey is even less relaxed than she was when they began. Every time she's on the verge of slipping into something even close to a trance, she'll wrinkle her nose or crack her knuckles or bite her lip or blink or cough: one tiny motion that throws her off completely and makes her have to start all over again. Not to mention ...

 

"You're thinking so loudly that I can hear you all the way over here," Ben informs her.

 

Rey lets out her breath in a gusty sigh, opens her eyes, and frowns at him. "I can't just stop _thinking.”_

 

"It's difficult, but it is possible," he assures her.

 

"Maybe for _some_ people ...”

 

"Oh, ouch,” Ben says, unable to keep from grinning. “Just try again.”

 

Rey dutifully transforms herself into the very picture of tranquility, tries her hand once more, and once more after that … with no more success than before.

 

“Let's take a break,” Ben suggests. It feels strange to say, and yet it sounds familiar. Snoke certainly never would allowed him to “take a break” from his training, much less suggested it. But someone must have, because he can remember hearing it.

 

“This is never going to work,” Rey says woefully.

 

"That's funny. I would have thought that someone who waited on Jakku for fourteen years would have more patience," Ben observes.

 

At first he worries he's overstepped, but Rey rests her head in her hands and looks at him with a curious sort of smile. "That's exactly what Master Luke said."

 

Ben scowls and hunches over, not enjoying the feeling of being compared to his uncle. Even though in Rey's eyes, the comparison is probably meant to be favorable … it still makes his skin creep and his stomach twist and his eyes burn. “Let's just try again in a few minutes.”

 

But Rey is no longer studying meditation … she's studying him. “Why do you always change the subject when I mention Master Luke?” she demands.

 

Ben grits his teeth, flexes his fingers. “I don't.”

 

“You do too.”

 

Ben flushes. “Maybe I'm just tired of hearing about him, okay?”

 

Rey pauses for a moment, taken aback by Ben's sudden grumpiness. She frowns, but there's something of disappointment to it. “You … you really hate him, don't you?

 

She sounds as though she doesn't understand how anybody possibly could have a negative opinion of Luke Skywalker. Once, Ben would have been every bit as indignant and aghast at such a thought.

 

But that was a long time ago.

 

“Regardless of my feelings about him,” Ben says, staring at the dried flowers across the room, “he certainly has no love for me.” _Not anymore._

 

He dares a glance back at Rey and finds her wide-eyed, slowly shaking her head. “You … you really are an idiot, aren't you?”

 

Ben starts at that. _Idiot? Well, it's a step up from monster …_ “What are you talking about?” he manages to ask, through the fast-rising, thickening lump in his throat.

 

“If Master Luke hated you,” Rey asks him, “then do you really think he would have let me go to Dagobah to meet you?”

 

Ben stammers, unable to make sense of what she's telling him; it doesn't fit with what he's been telling himself this whole time … when he was trying not to think of it at all, that is. “I thought that was _why_ he sent you … so that you would kill me and he wouldn't have to get his hands dirty.”

 

“Master Luke would never do something that!” Rey protests, her eyes alight with indignation. “Not even to someone he did hate … and he _doesn't_ hate you.”

 

She's wrong, she must be wrong. But arguing with her is senseless, and will only lead to more confusion, not understanding. He wishes he'd never said anything, wishes Luke Skywalker's name hadn't been said. They'd been doing just fine without him. “Do we have to talk about this now?” Ben asks wearily. _Do we have to talk about this ever?_

 

“Fine,” Rey says with a huff. “Then we won't talk about it. But you're wrong about him. You'll see.”

 

Her insistence, her childish certainty, her _faith_ , pushes Ben over the edge he's been teetering on. “You've known Luke Skywalker for … what? A month? I lived with him for five years. I listened to his so-called teachings and tried to learn his so-called lessons and here I am and the only Jedi knowledge I have is stuff he was never any good at, that I had to go out and learn for myself. So don't tell me _I'm_ wrong.”

 

Rey's eyes narrow. Anger brews in the air around her like a storm front, clouds of it rolling off of her and towards him. She's feeding off what he was giving out and the mix of energy is potent and dangerous.

 

 _Uh oh,_ Ben thinks. At least, half of him thinks that. The other half, baring its teeth in anticipation of a fight, thinks _oh, yes._ The darker parts of him are spoiling for a fight, the fight she wouldn't give him after he woke up. At least if Rey's angry at him, at least if that's what she's focusing on, then she can't be afraid ... but _I don't want to fight with you,_ she had told him. And he's back standing there in the cockpit staggering under the weight of the revelation that she cares about him, that to lose him would hurt her. And there is more than one way to lose somebody.

 

It's like he's a flame that's just been thoroughly doused. The desire to argue flickers and fades out of him, turns him to rapidly cooling embers. "That wasn't … that wasn't fair," he says. "Rey, I didn't mean to be …” He shakes his head. “Forget I said it."

 

"I can't forget you said it," Rey replies after a moment, her voice strained, her anger weakened to a pale shadow of hurt. "It bothers me. I don't like it that you think that about Master Luke. Do you understand that?"

 

Ben bows his head slightly, allowing his hair to fall forward and shadow his face. "I ... I understand that he ... that he means a lot to you. That you think highly of him." _More highly than you'll ever think of me, that's for sure._

 

"And do you really believe," Rey asks him, genuine confusion and a bit of hurt in her voice, "that I would think so highly of him if he were the kind of person who would send me off to kill his nephew?"

 

Ben hadn't thought about it like that before. He hadn't thought about it like that because ... "It's different," he says, struggling to convey what he means, to translate this long-held but never spoken belief. "The circumstances are different. If that had been what he sent you for ... it would only be fair. It would be what I had coming to me. He would have been ... he would have been right."

 

Rey looks at him for a long moment, just looks. Ben can feel her gaze, even though he can't bring himself to meet it. He doesn't need to see her face to know what she's feeling, because the emotions pass easily and painlessly and naturally from her to him. She hurts ... not for herself and the very difficult situation she has been put in. She hurts for Luke Skywalker, and she hurts for Ben.

 

"It wouldn't have been right," she tells him, her words thick with conviction. "It wouldn't have, and I don't think you believe that either, not really."

 

"Then tell me, Rey," Ben hears himself saying hoarsely, raising his eyes to look into hers. Her conviction doesn't dim or waver in the face of his doubt. "What is it that I do believe?"

 

She looks at him for long moments, taking the measure of him with more than her eyes. Ben can feel the brush of her mind against his.

 

"Give me your hands," Rey says softly, holding her own hands out, palms up.

 

After a moment's hesitation born of confusion, Ben extends his hands, and Rey takes them in her own. Hers are warmer than he expected them to be. What does not surprise him is their strength, their surety. Rey clasps his hands – which seem to Ben so embarrassingly large and clumsy now, and sickly pale – tightly in hers and closes her eyes. Ben wonders if she means for him to close his too, but he doesn't. She's far too interesting not to look at in this moment: the Force attentive in her, and her in it, the scavenger girl reaching out towards a mighty power only to willing to bend to her every command. Ben's chest hurts; he wasn't quite breathing. His hands are shaking in Rey's, but she doesn't let go.

 

"You believe ..." She starts and stops. Her eyes are still closed, brown lashes dusting her freckled cheeks, but her brow furrows ever so slightly, then smooths out again. "You believe that you can trust me. Right?"

 

"Of course I do." There is no hesitation now. He does believe he can trust Rey; foolish as he is, he'd have to be a whole new kind of fool to imagine that she was deceiving him. There is darkness in her, but not deceitfulness. The darkness in her is a twin to the darkness in him; it's _why_ he trusts her.

 

"Then trust me," she tells him, opening her eyes into his. "Believe me. Master Luke would never do that to you; he would never do that to me. And he didn't _send_ me anywhere; I told him I was going to meet you."

 

"And he let you?" Ben asks with horror. "How could he have thought _that_ was a good idea?"

 

To Ben's amazement, Rey smiles. "Well, it worked out pretty well, didn't it?"

 

He has no words for that, so for the moment, he shuts up.

 

"So you see," Rey goes on, "Luke Skywalker didn't send me anywhere. He certainly didn't send me to kill you. And even if he had asked me to, I wouldn't have done it.”

 

Ben is quiet, still. He has avoided thinking of Luke Skywalker as anything but a concept, anything but an ideological opponent, for such a long time now. When thoughts of the man who was his uncle do slip through the cracks in his mind, Ben reminds himself of how he destroyed everything that mattered to that man, and surely must have destroyed any possibility at forgiveness.

 

Thinking of Uncle Luke really hurts. But … with his hands in Rey's, Ben finds himself letting the thoughts, the memories, spill in. And he finds, to his shock, that he can bear them.

 

_Uncle Luke's face, blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he throws his head back laughing at something Ben said. Carrying Ben around on his back while the little boy pretended to be Master Yoda with his funny habit of talking backwards. His patient tone as he encouraged Ben to try again with his lightsaber forms, to keep trying, to not give up. Whirling through the stars in his X-Wing, then apologizing over and over and over when Ben got sick from it, taking him home and cleaning his face and making him tea to soothe his stomach. When the lessons just got too much and Ben was so frustrated and Uncle Luke would say “Let's just take a break, Ben. Let's try again later ...”_

 

Ben takes a sharp, shuddering breath and realizes that he's crying. A few hot tears seep sluggishly down his cheeks, burning as they go. He tries to pull his hands free and wipe them away, to slink off somewhere in shame, but Rey doesn't let him go.

 

“I know you're afraid,” she says, holding his shaking fingers in her steady ones. “You're afraid to see Master Luke again. You're afraid of how much it will hurt. And you're afraid that he's going to fail me, the way you feel he failed you.”

 

He can't argue with her, because all of it's true. He slumps his shoulders and bows his head and a tear traces down his nose and lands on the bedspread. The dark patch it leaves behind in the gray wool seems improbably large.

 

“Once you told me that Han Solo would disappoint me,” Rey continues, quiet and inexorable, lacing her fingers through his, stilling his shaking.

 

“I … I m-meant it when I said it,” Ben chokes out.

 

“But you were wrong then,” Rey softly says, her fingertips tracing Ben's knuckles, forcing him to relax. “And you know that. You're wrong about Luke Skywalker too. It's okay to be wrong, Ben.”

 

What is happening? He can't make sense of it. The way she's once again managed to reach inside of him and dig up the softest things he thought were dead and buried … but this time, she didn't do it to hurt him. She did it to help him, and it _worked_. Rey speaks with a wisdom and knowledge and awareness she didn't have on her own … she speaks as if from a different plane of consciousness.

 

_Oh._

 

Ben sniffs and blinks away the tears. “Good job, Rey,” he whispers, squeezing her hands. “You did it. You're meditating.”

 

\- - -

 

The Millennium Falcon sets down on Yavin Four just after dawn the next day. The sun is on the rise, crowning the lustrous green trees with pink and gold, but it's not yet hot enough to have burned the mist away. The ground is draped in the softest gray, obscuring the details of the landscape from view. Rey stares out the viewport with her breath caught, blinking as she takes in the sight of a new planet, one lush with life and filled with history and symbolic, to so many beings across the galaxy, of hope.

 

Ben tries not to look. He's seen it before. Instead, with his heart doing nauseating flops in his chest, he goes to his bunk to get ready.

 

He tries not to think of what he was wearing the last time he stood on this planet. Tan shirt and brown pants that were stained with blood and scorched from sparks and sabers, hand-me-down boots that pinched his ever-growing feet. He hits himself in the face once he's alone – not very hard – telling himself it's a quicker way to wake up than waiting for the caf to kick in. Then he assesses his limited clothing options, deciding that he's not going to meet his uncle while wearing his dead father's clothes. Black pants, black shirt, black cloak, black boots. He sets his gloves aside so he can attempt to finger-comb his hair into submission. Once that's done, his gaze shifts to the battered, patched saber hilt with its exposed red wire, resting on the end of his bed. Chewie had pressed it into his hand at breakfast with a grumble, and Ben had been grateful to have it back. Now, he straps it to his belt. He will not face his old master without a lightsaber at his side. What remains of his pride will not allow it.

 

Only when he's done that and straightened up does he realize he's not alone. His father is propped up against the door frame, looking at him with an expression Ben can't name.

 

“You can't knock?” Ben protests, unsticking the words from his throat with difficulty. “I was changing out of my pajamas in here.”

 

“Like you've got anything I ain't seen before,” Han Solo says, laughter in his eyes.

 

“Dad!”

 

“Okay, okay.” The ghost spreads his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Next time I'll announce myself. Promise.”

 

Ben nods. “Was there … something you wanted?” he asks awkwardly.

 

His father shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I guess I wanted to ask if you wanted me to go out there with you.”

 

“Not exactly,” Ben admits, after a moment's thought. “Not unless you wanted to ...”

 

Han Solo shakes his head. “You and Rey ought to see Luke first. There'll be plenty of time for me to haunt him later.” He smiles crookedly, but it doesn't quite reach his hazel eyes, which are sad.

 

“You're not going … to leave, are you?” Ben asks, fear rising to claw at his throat.

 

“Leave? No, kid. I'll be hanging around. But it's like Obi-Wan says, I'm using your … your Force energy more lately, and it's making you tired. Tell me it isn't.”

 

Ben can't tell him that. But he'd rather be tired and have his father near than be wide-awake without him …

 

“You'll be here,” Ben says to clarify, to make sure. “You'll be here when we get back … right?”

 

Han Solo crosses the distance between them and claps Ben on the shoulder. “I'll always be here, kid,” he says, his voice husky with truth. “I'll always be right here.”

 

\- - -  
  


When he and Rey and Chewie disembark the Falcon a few minutes later, Ben shivers. Not just because it's chilly – though it is, at this time of the morning – but because he's afraid. Rey, walking down the ramp alongside him, nudges his shoulder with hers. He turns to look at her, and she smiles, bright, encouraging … but she's afraid, too, a little bit. Afraid that the time she has spent apart from her master, the things that she has done and the things that have been done to her, will somehow have lessened her in Luke Skywalker's eyes. Ben nudges Rey's shoulder in turn. Chewie growls at them to stop roughhousing.

 

Ben doesn't know what he expects when his feet touch the surface of Yavin Four again … a rumbling quake, maybe? A bolt of judgmental lightning? A yawning chasm to open beneath him and swallow him up? Nothing happens. He's just standing there, that's all: at the edge of a clearing at the edge of the forest, at the edge of an encounter he's been dreading for half his life.

 

They all stand there for a few moments, feeling the purity of the fresh air after the closeness of space, hearing the low thrum of birds and insects and the small mammals that call the treetops home. The way the Force feels here … it's generous, open, warm as a bath. It laps at the edges of everything until it wears the hard things away.

 

Chewie cuts into the peace and quiet by wondering if the coordinates that Luke gave Rey were right.

 

“This is where he said to land,” Rey says, a little fretfully, straining her eyes to the forest's edge. “He said that he would be here to meet us, but … maybe … maybe I should go find him ...”

 

Before she can make up her mind either way, a series of beeps pour of out of the forest, beeps that don't much sound like the local fauna. Chewie turns his head sharply in the direction of the noise, and Ben rests his hand on the hilt of his saber.

 

From the mist emerges a squat blue-and-white astromech droid, beeping and whirring and heading straight for them at a breakneck pace, determined over the bumpy ground.

 

Chewie roars a greeting, and Artoo-Detoo chirrups back without missing a beat. The little droid isn't slowing down at all, and Ben starts to worry that something might be wrong, until the noise inside his head fades enough for him to make out what Artoo's saying … he's beeping Ben's name.

 

Artoo rams into Ben's legs hard enough to make him stagger. Caught off guard and thrown off balance in more ways than one, there is a moment in which Ben feels attacked, threatened by the little droid.

 

Then Artoo wheels back sharply, and beeps more slowly, more intelligibly.

 

"Yeah, Artoo," Ben replies, his words slow and unsteady, stumbling. "I guess ... I guess I have gotten taller since you saw me last."

 

Artoo chirps and whines. Ben's eyes water.

 

"I missed you, Artoo," he mumbles, gloved hand patting the top of Artoo's head.

 

The little droid spins happily around Ben's legs and then whirrs over to Rey and does the same thing, loop-de-looping around her while she laughs. Artoo nearly trips Chewie, who whines his annoyance and displeasure.

 

"Artoo," Rey asks, the smile fading from her face to be replaced with a worried expression, her brows drawing together in concern. "Where is Master Luke?" Many unvoiced questions linger in the one: _Is he still here? Has something happened to him? Is something wrong? Has he left me behind?_

 

 _He wouldn't do that,_ Ben catches himself thinking, and he thinks, by the look on Rey's face, that she heard him. Which is fine. She was meant to.

 

Artoo pivots towards the forest path he came from, chirping reassurances that Master Luke will be along presently, that he sent Artoo on ahead to welcome them.

 

There is a slight but palpable tremor in the Force, giving credence to Artoo's words. Ben hasn't felt that presence in over a decade, but he still knows it very well.

 

He thought he'd feel the urge to run, but now that the moment's here, he couldn't move if he wanted to. He sees an image in his head, a flash of a vision of him stepping closer and reaching out to grab Rey's hand, but he doesn't move and it stays what it is: an image, not reality.

 

In reality, though he stands together with Rey and Chewbacca, Ben will always be standing alone. But at least he is standing.

 

There is a stirring in the mist, a dark shape that resolves itself into a person: hooded in gray, shorter than Ben remembers, walking slowly towards them until they're only a few meters apart.

 

The man in gray sweeps them with his gaze, his eyes as vibrant a blue as ever though they're set in an older, heavy-bearded face.

 

"Well," says Luke Skywalker, the last of the Jedi, with the trace of a smile. "It's about time."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;)


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing that has happened since they landed here has made sense to Ben, his uncle's behavior toward him least of all. But … if he trusts anything, he trusts the Force. And he thinks, reluctantly, that the Force probably wants him to trust Luke Skywalker.

In the wake of Luke Skywalker's words, there is quiet.

 

One moment stretches out into another and another and another, yet no one speaks and no one makes a move. The morning air itself is still; even the birds and insects seem to have fallen silent.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Ben watches Rey sway slightly forward, then rock back into place on her heels. She grips at the strap of her rucksack with both hands, and her face is scrunched, her eyes watery, her lips pressed tightly together, and as if the tension weren't visible enough, it echoes across the Force from her to those around her. She's so glad to see her master, wants to rush forward and greet him, but she feels as frozen as Ben does, for her own reasons. So Rey remains stuck in place, anchored to the spot by the heaviness of her own fears.

 

It is Luke Skywalker who takes the necessary step forward, erasing the distance and the silence as if they had never been. It's Rey he greets first, a slight smile making his gray beard twitch. The morning sun catches a glint of metal as he reaches out to her: the mechanics of the Jedi's prosthetic hand revealed. The unexpected sight gives Ben an unpleasant jolt, but soon enough, all he can see is Rey's smile – bright, joyful, relieved – before she drops her rucksack and throws her arms around the last Jedi.

 

Rey hugs Luke tightly, closing her eyes as if she's concentrating on the hug, absorbing it. Most of what remained of her fear is gone. Not all of it, but most, leaving only a faint shadow in its place. Instead of fear and worry, her heart is filling up with something else, something too great to leave space for any lesser emotions. The feeling is a powerful one, powerful enough that Ben picks up on it without trying, in fact, picks up in while trying not to. But it's a warm feeling, a safe feeling, one he recognizes, though he's only begun to experience it recently … it's akin to the feeling he gets when his dad is around.

 

But his dad _isn't_ around at the moment. The anxiety rushes back, a hard fist around Ben's throat, making it difficult for him to get his breath. He can't look at Rey and Luke anymore, and he catches himself shifting, edging very slowly to the side so that he's closer to Chewie. When Ben notices what he's doing, he makes himself stop. He looks down at the ground, which seems too green all of a sudden, a quick light breeze making the grass move like it's alive, and he closes his eyes and smells the air, the sun and the grass and the dew and the trees and Chewie, and he tries to breathe.

 

"It's good to see you," Luke says to Rey, and he says it in a low tone, but the sound carries and just for a moment, just for a second … Ben feels like Luke Skywalker is talking to him. He's not, of course, he knows he can't be included in that statement, it would be a lie if he was and he would hate it but he kind of hates being left out too …

 

"I hope you weren't too worried,” Rey is saying now.

 

There is a smile in Luke Skywalker's voice when he answers, and Ben can just picture that smile: his mind supplying him with the image his closed eyes and cowardly heart deny him. "Not for a second. I knew you could do it." He pauses. When he speaks again, his voice is louder, meant to be heard by more than just Rey. "All of you."

 

Ben doesn't speak, but he does open his eyes, and raise his head. His uncle is looking at him, just as Ben knew he would be. He can feel Luke Skywalker's eyes on him, but can't make himself look back, not directly. Not yet.

 

Chewie roars loudly and indignantly, demanding to know why couldn't Luke have just met them at the Resistance base and saved them all a lot of travel time and fuel? But he's already pulling Luke into a fierce hug, lifting the Jedi clear off the ground in the process. Luke is laughing and holding onto the Wookiee's shoulders for dear life as his booted feet dangle above the grass. “I missed you too, Chewie,” Luke says, the warmth of old friendship suffusing his voice. Chewie gives Luke another squeeze and howls with happiness, and Rey looks on, beaming. Ben does nothing, because he's thinking about the ones who are missing from this reunion and how if it weren't for him there wouldn't even be a need for a reunion; he destroyed his own family and ripped everyone and everything apart and _we could have been together all along_ …

 

Artoo beeps and nudges Ben's leg, bringing him abruptly back to reality. The little droid repeats this a second time and a third before Ben figures out that Artoo isn't merely trying to get his attention; now that Luke Skywalker has been returned to the ground, Artoo is trying to nudge Ben in his direction.

 

" _No,_ Artoo," Ben mutters under his breath. Artoo beeps in a low and dejected way, and Ben feels bad, but there's no way he's getting any closer to his uncle than he is at the moment. Not yet, and maybe not ever again.

 

Of course, this is the exact moment when Luke Skywalker's bright blue eyes turn to pierce Ben's own, pinning his nephew in place with an unflinching gaze. The Jedi looks undisturbed and implacable, his countenance like a deep pool of still water.

 

But looks can be deceiving.

 

Skywalker is putting up an impressive mental defense, but against Ben Solo, to whom telepathy comes as naturally as breathing, it's not good enough. The Jedi's control is nearly perfect ... but only nearly. His emotions are a strong current running close to the surface, and Ben dips into them automatically, not stopping to think about whether this is right or wrong, or whether he cares. He's only there for a moment, but he emerges shaken with what he's learned.

 

His uncle's gaze might be unflinching, but only through tremendous effort. His eyes might look like tranquil seas, but his mind is turbulent. Maintaining eye contact with his nephew in this moment is one of the hardest things that Luke Skywalker has ever done … which makes sense, because it's one of the hardest things Ben has ever done, too.

 

Yet, in spite of this knowledge, Ben is still startled that it's Luke who breaks first. It is the master who cannot bear to look his fallen apprentice in the eye any longer. It the Jedi who lowers his gaze and hangs his head. Ben's face burns with shame and he looks away too, blinking in the sunlight. The silence that follows, awkward though it is, only lasts a moment.

 

“I hope you're all hungry,” Luke says. “The stew should be just about ready now.”

 

Ben starts, looking back at Luke incredulously, but there's no sign on his uncle's face or in his demeanor that he has ever been anything but serious and serene.

 

Chewie's howl of approval is immediate, and Rey nods enthusiastically, her eyes lighting up at the prospect of stew even though she ate at least three dried seaweed biscuits and a handful of cookies before they left the Falcon.

 

Luke smiles, turns and heads off into the forest, leaving them to follow in his wake.

 

Even after all these years, Ben knows this forest trail, recognizes it the second he steps onto it. It's one of a series of connected paths that weave and wend their way through the thick shrubbery and lush trees of Yavin. When he lived here, Ben spent a lot of time wandering in the woods; he always felt more welcome in the trees than he did among his fellow students. Now, enfolded in the vast green, he hears the trills of birds and bugs, smells flowers beginning to open up, feels the way the damp dirt gives generously under his boots … and for a moment, it's an eerie, otherworldly feeling, like no time has passed at all and he might be ten years old again. Nothing on this planet seems to have changed ... except for his uncle.

 

As they walk – Luke leading the way, Rey close and eager on his heels, Ben and Chewie bumping into each other as they walk side by side, and Artoo bringing up the rear, whistling cheerfully – Ben sneaks glances at his uncle when he can. He's an old man now. And at first glance, he almost appeared broken … but it would take a bigger idiot than Ben to keeping thinking that after a second glance. There are cracks in Luke Skywalker, of course, but he's still held together by the same Force that binds the galaxy. His strength of spirit, a spirit that Ben came to mistrust and dislike as a teenager, is even more apparent now. There's a spring in Luke's step that wasn't there when he walked out of the trees to greet them, a restless energy that has been unleashed in him. His clothes are plain and patched and frayed, his boots muddy and scuffed. This is unlike the Luke Skywalker that Ben remembers. His once honey-colored hair is gray now, and on the edge of being unkempt. Ben also distinctly remembers his uncle vowing at some point never to grow a beard, a promise he seems to have forgotten … or maybe just been unable to keep while living in exile on a deserted island. It's not like the beard looks terrible or anything, but it alters Luke's face in a way, makes him look even older than he is, and more serious and stern, almost grim. _It's like a disguise, for him,_ Ben thinks. _Like a mask … oh._

 

The trail forks and Luke turns left and so does everyone else but for a moment Ben stands frozen, his spine made of stone, his eyes fixed on the shadows that lay across the trail that leads to the right. He stays like that until Artoo beeps indignantly and nudges him along. Ben stumbles, but he goes. He can't put enough distance between himself and that place.

 

The thing is, he knows what the other fork leads to … or rather, what it used to lead to. It's probably just rubble now, heaps of ash and scorched stone. If that. Maybe someone came and cleared it away and there's nothing left at all, just as there's nothing left of the Jedi-in-training who studied and slept and died there …

 

Rey looks back and catches Ben's eye. She smiles at him, an encouraging smile. A warm smile, but he's numb in that moment and the warmth doesn't penetrate; he can't feel it. He tries to smile back at her all the same, but it feels more like a grimace. It appears to satisfy Rey, though, because she turns back around … or maybe she's just distracted by the sight that lays before them as they emerge from the shade of the trees and into an open area bathed in sunlight.

 

Luke has set up his cooking fire in front of the old Rebel Alliance base. There had been talk of turning the rundown facility into a museum, Ben recalls, but for some reason no one ever got around to it and they don't seem to have gotten around to it since the last time he was here, either. The forest has encroached on the buildings considerably, creeping almost to the foundations in some places. The duracrete is cracked and what isn't cracked is thickly hung with green vines. If the inside is as dilapidated as the outside, it's no wonder that Luke would rather cook outside. The fire pit, carefully dug out so as not to singe the surrounding grass, hosts a low fire licking at the base of a battered old cooking pot, from which issues white steam and the unmistakable, appetizing scent of meat and herbs.

 

“Please, sit down,” Luke says, indicating the lush grass. The smile he wears, though genuine, is touched with irony. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

 

Rey and Chewie don't have to be told twice; they're already divesting themselves of their various burdens and settling down on the grass. Ben remains standing, looking around at them all in bewilderment. This is … not what he expected. He doesn't understand what's going on and he can't trust it. They can't all just … sit down and have a meal together; isn't there something else, something more important they could be doing? Something that matters?

 

Ben might have stood there eternally, or he might have tried to say something … but he can't really know what he would have done. Without warning, Artoo runs full force into the back of his legs. In a second Ben's lying flat on his back on the ground, staring up at the bright blue sky, breathless and betrayed.

 

After a moment of shocked indignation, he manages to collect himself. “Well, you haven't changed a bit, Artoo,” he grumbles, pulling himself up into a sitting position. Artoo beeps and whistles a cheery confirmation. Chewie and Rey are laughing, and Ben brushes grass from his clothes and tries not to be too embarrassed. At the very least, Artoo's good at breaking tension.

 

Luke appears to have missed the whole exchange; he's busy fussing over his stewpot. _He always was a perfectionist when it came to his cooking._ After a final stir, Luke samples the stew and nods in satisfaction before spooning it into bowls. He serves Rey first, then Chewie, then before Ben has time to prepare himself his uncle is standing in front of him, holding out a bowl of stew in his direction. It's the closest they've been to one another in fifteen years, and the most that Ben can say for the experience is that at least he doesn't run away screaming. He just sits stupidly, blinking up at his uncle. Or, rather, at the ragged hem of his uncle's robe. He's not eager to be subjected to that bright blue gaze again.

 

“Afraid do not be,” Luke says after a few moments of awkward silence. “Snakes in it, there are not.”

 

For a moment Ben doesn't even register the joke, because how can Luke Skywalker be offering him food, let alone making jokes? _He should be offering me a lightsaber through the heart or at the very least a pair of energy binders._

 

“I'm not hungry,” Ben blurts. His voice is rough, and he sounds petulant even though he didn't mean to be. He's aware of everyone looking at him and he hunches his shoulders, pulls in his knees, and flushes with embarrassment. His brain is full of static, roaring in his ears.

 

Luke Skywalker, though, scarcely misses a beat. “A first, that would be,” he continues in his Master Yoda voice. “Eat, you should. Your strength, you need.”

 

“True, that is,” Rey pipes up after a moment, playing along.

 

The sound of Rey's voice, talking sense even though she's being silly, cuts through the white noise in Ben's mind and he sees his hands reaching out to take the bowl, his gloved fingers inadvertently brushing his uncle's. He pulls back, bringing the bowl with him, sloshing the stew but managing not to spill it. He mumbles a thank you, but it sounds smothered and he doesn't even know if his uncle hears it. Luke simply steps away, the raveled, dirtied hem of his robe swishing across the toe of Ben's boot as he goes.

 

Since he's holding the bowl of stew now, Ben figures he might as well eat it. It's still very hot, but it smells good, the recipe an old and familiar one … maybe he is hungry after all. And at least if he's eating, he won't feel any pressure to have to talk.

 

What he does feel, though, as he forces the – admittedly delicious – stew down past the lump in his throat is a deep anxiety. The longer it sits, the longer it grows, the more certain he is that it's not just his own anxiety, that it's not just born of his own personal fears. There is something else, something outside of him, outside of all of them: a prickling, unpleasant awareness of something waiting in the near future. Possibly getting closer.

 

Possibly hunting.

 

When the bowl sits empty in Ben's hands, he knows for certain that he's not imagining it. It's like a shadow has been cast over his mind, growing longer and darker. The sunlight, now warm and bright overhead, doesn't look real. One thing is real, however.

 

“He knows,” Ben murmurs.

 

The sound of his voice is so faint that at first he doesn't think anyone noticed it at all. But when he looks up, Rey's eyes are fixed on him, wide with alarm.

 

“Who knows what?” she asks him, even though he feels that she already knows.

 

“Snoke knows that we're here,” Ben says, his eyes flicking from Rey's to Luke's. His uncle's gaze is calm and steady now, no question in his eyes. “He knows that we found you.”

 

The mention of Snoke's name scratches and scrapes at all them. Even Artoo makes an unpleasant grinding noise in response to it. Rey has gone still and slightly pale, her eyes unblinking and fixed. Of all them, Luke Skywalker is the least troubled. All that he does is nod.

 

“I expected that he would.”

 

Ben surges to his feet, his bowl falling to the ground with a _thunk_. His hands are in tight fists at his sides, and he looks to where his uncle still sits, cross-legged and calm on the ground as they've just been discussing a change in the weather. “We need to leave,” Ben says as calmly as he can manage. “Now.”

 

Rey is getting to her feet as well. She, too, wants to put as much distance between them and Snoke as possible. But Luke Skywalker gets to his feet slowly, and stretches like a sleepy cat.

 

“First things first,” he says, looking from Rey to Ben and back again. “There are some things I need to discuss with each of you, before we go.”

 

Rey is visibly nonplussed, looking at her master as though he's just said something very stupid, and in Ben's opinion, he has.

 

“Whatever you think we need to discuss, we can discuss it on the Falcon,” Ben informs his uncle, his voice coiled as tight as his fists. He starts to turn back to the path. The others can follow him if they want and if they're smart, they will. All he wants to do is get off this planet as soon as possible.

 

“Ben,” his uncle says gently, and he stops in his tracks.

 

“Snoke is far away,” Luke continues, in that same gentle voice, a voice made for soothing a panicking animal. “He can't hurt us here.”

 

“He won't come himself,” Ben points out dully, not bothering to turn around. “He'll send someone else, but that's not the point. The point is, we need to get out of here before he does.”

 

Chewie approaches Ben, puts a massive hand on his shoulder, urging him to turn around. Ben does, because at least with Chewie standing beside him, he doesn't feel so afraid.

 

“I'm not worried about being captured here,” Luke Skywalker continues.

 

“Maybe you should be,” Ben snaps.

 

Rey says nothing, but the look on her face says enough. She wants to go. But she doesn't want to seem as though she doesn't trust Luke. Fine. Ben will be the bad guy. “I don't ...”

 

“... trust me?” Luke completes the sentence for him. “I know you don't. And I can hardly blame you. But I'm hoping, if you'll humor your old uncle for just a little while longer, maybe you'll understand.”

 

This sounds … unlikely. Nothing that has happened since they landed here has made sense to Ben, his uncle's behavior toward him least of all. But … if he trusts anything, he trusts the Force. And he thinks, reluctantly, that the Force probably wants him to trust Luke Skywalker. So he nods. He concedes. For now.

 

“Shall we talk, Rey?” Luke says, turning to her.

 

“I …” Rey looks lost, and her eyes meet Ben's for a moment. _She's afraid of telling him about her nightmare … afraid to tell him Snoke got into her head._ Well, Rey doesn't need to be afraid of that. Luke isn't going to think any less of her for it; how could he? Nothing that has happened is Rey's fault.

 

It's all Ben's fault.

 

As usual.

 

 _It's okay,_ he thinks at Rey. _Don't worry_.

 

Her expression clears, and she manages a slight smile before walking away with Luke, following him into the shelter of the nearest old Alliance building.

 

While they talk, Ben paces circles around the fire pit, feeling like a trapped animal. It's driving him crazy not to know what's being said, and he doesn't know what bothers him more: the thought that they might be discussing him or the thought that they might not be.

 

Chewie, still sitting by the fire, looks over at Ben and whines loudly.

 

“How am I supposed to relax?” Ben wants to know.

 

Chewie whines again and gestures with his second bowl of stew.

 

“Not all of us think with our stomachs, Chewie,” grumbles Ben. Besides which, hot stew is the last thing he wants right now; he's doing enough stewing of his own. The Yavin sun is hot and high now, and Ben is decidedly uncomfortable in his layers of black clothing. He's starting to regret his choice of wardrobe for the day, but his list of regrets is already so long, this one barely registers. He wipes some sweat from his brow and utters a quiet growl of irritation.

 

Artoo trills pertly at him.

 

“Oh, really?” Ben says sarcastically, looking down at the little droid. “I'd be cooler if I stopped pacing around? Now, why didn't I think of that?” All the same, he does flop down onto the ground, and accepts the canteen of water that Chewie offers him.

 

“I know,” he says softly, after a few quiet moments, when his head has cooled. “I'm being a pain.”

 

Chewie yelps in agreement, but slings a hairy arm around Ben's shoulders and squeezes him all the same.

 

They sit there like that for a little while longer, quiet but companionable. Before long, Ben senses Rey and Luke approaching, and the anxiety that had lain coiled inside of him while they were gone rears its ugly head again, because he knows that Luke will want to talk to him next, and it's a talk he's only been dreading for years.

 

Rey sits down on the other side of Chewie, and looks over at Ben. He looks back at her and reads a wealth of information in a matter of seconds. Her eyes are slightly damp, patches of her cheeks cleaner than others … she's been crying, a little bit. But oddly, it seems to have done her good. The fear in her has been eased, put aside, made small, and when she smiles, it comes far more easily than the one earlier did. Rey has laid down a heavy burden, and right now, everything about her speaks of light.

 

Ben has no illusions that he will come away from his talk with Luke Skywalker in a similar condition. But in a way, that doesn't seem important right now. He's just … glad that Rey is all right.

 

And he wants to get this over with. So he stands up, faces his uncle.

 

“You don't have to say anything, Ben,” Luke Skywalker tells him. “Not if you don't want to. Let's go for a walk.”

 

Chewie growls briefly.

 

“We won't be too long,” Luke assures him.

 

Ben walks alongside Luke, back into the forest, onto the paths from which they came. He keeps as much distance between them as possible, and struggles to shorten his strides to match his uncle's more leisurely steps. This feels oddly familiar. He'd been taller than Luke by the time he was twelve and he always found himself getting ahead when they went walking, impatient with his uncle's slower pace.

Now, he uses the focus on shortening his steps to try to calm down. It works, sort of. But as they walk – in silence except for their footsteps and the sound of birds and insects in the trees – Ben can feel Luke sneaking sidelong glances at him. And finally, he just can't stand it anymore.

 

“What?” Ben snaps, stopping in the middle of the path and turning to face his uncle. “What are you looking at?”

 

Luke stops too, and looks up at him with a neutral expression. It still feels strange to look down the Jedi. “I was just looking at you. I didn't mean to stare. But it's been a long time, and I ...” Luke Skywalker stops talking. He's left his robe behind and under his sandy-colored tunic, his shoulders are slumped as though they carry a heavy weight upon them. “Never mind.”

 

They resume walking. Ben feels bad for snapping … he doesn't even know why he's doing it. He had wanted to believe that he was doing better, _becoming_ better, but in the presence of his uncle, he seems to be turning back into the surly, bitter, broken teenager he was the last time they met.

 

Maybe he never stopped being that way.

 

They keep walking, taking a path toward what used to be the Jedi school. Ben had known that's where they would be going, but he tries not to think about it, just to keep moving his feet in the right direction, one foot in front of the other.

 

“It took me by surprise,” Luke says, all of a sudden.

 

“What did?”

 

“The … connection between you and Rey. I knew that it was strong, of course, I sensed that much. But I had no idea just how strong.”

 

Ben doesn't know what to say to that, but he's immediately on the defensive once again. So far none of his fears about this encounter with Luke Skywalker have come true, except for this one. This thing between him and Rey, their weird and precious alliance … it's no longer just between him and Rey. Now it's Luke Skywalker's to stare at and dissect and analyze and judge and maybe even _break_ if he wants to …

 

“I'm sorry,” Luke says in a mild tone. “I don't mean to be nosy.”

 

Ben doesn't say anything. His hands are fists at his sides and he's shaking slightly. He can't recall being this tense, this tightly wound, since he made the decision to leave the First Order behind. But there's nothing here for him to push back against. No enemy but himself to fight.

 

“You don't have anything to fear from me, Ben,” Luke is saying now. There is light up ahead, a break in the trees, bright fingers of sunlight seeming to reach out for them. “No more than I have to fear from you.”

 

Ben barely hears him. They are now emerging into a vast, grassy field: the long grasses waving and rippling in a slight breeze, carrying the scent of flowers. Seeing it from this angle means it takes a moment to make sense of, but in a stomach-churning second Ben recognizes the crumbled ruins of a burned-out, long abandoned stone building on the opposite end of the field. But it isn't to the ruined school that Luke leads him.

 

They stop in a cleared area halfway between the forest and the school. The grasses have been cut back in a circle around a line of rocks … no, not just rocks. Grave markers.

 

Ben feels the weight of each stone as if they're all pressing down on him at once, crushing him. It occurs to him to wonder who tends these graves now, who brings the flowers and cuts back the grass and keeps the weeds and vines pulled away. It must be the work of Yavin's colonists, simply doing the dead a kindness. None of the students who lie here had anyone who would have marked their passing or cared to memorialize their lives. Luke Skywalker didn't take Force-sensitive children from their families, as the old Jedi Order did. He took them from back alleys of backwater planets, took them from terrible lives into a better one, where ... they ended up dead anyway.

 

All of them: _Jax. Asharla. Gi'ahli. Draya. Krintian. Rig. Tyla. Ghiro. Corme. Xialie. Mari. Venten. Laz._ Ben numbers each stone. Reads each name. Remembers each face.

 

What he cannot remember is exactly how each of them died. Some of them, yes, but the rest are obscured by a blur of red laser light and clouds of smoke. All he knows for sure is that he did it, and that he can never undo it. And he notices one more thing.

 

He hadn't noticed it before; the cold shock and the crushing feeling had taken over, but he sees it now.

 

There is one more stone here than there ought to be. One more grave.

 

Ben's heart feels cold and heavy inside his chest, as though it's turned to stone as well. He knows what he's going to see when he steps close enough to read the name on that stone. He knows, but he still stumbles slowly and painfully forward.

 

When he's close enough to read the words, he doesn't. He keeps walking until he's standing right before the grave, and then he stops for no reason, just as suddenly as if he's walked into a wall. His body feels strange and wrong, like he's been hollowed out, scraped empty by a jagged blade. For a moment, he's hyper-aware of his physical form in a way he ought not to be ... as if he's on the verge of not inhabiting it anymore. He can feel his uncle's gaze upon him as if it carries physical weight.

 

The stone, a little faded from sun and wind and time, stands alongside all the others as if it has a right to be there. At its base, a few weeds are beginning to spring up among the green grass, but among the weeds rests a wilted, rumpled bundle of hand-picked wildflowers.

 

The name carved on the stone reads: _Ben Solo._

 

For a moment, reading it, Ben feels like he might actually be dead. Like he's actually been buried under this stone the whole time and what's standing here in his skin is a dark shadow, a ghost.

 

"You let them think I was dead," he hears himself saying. The voice does not sound like his own; he sounds like a droid running a diagnostic on himself. "That I died with the others." He should not be surprised. After all, he did say, all those years ago, _Ben Solo is dead_. He just hadn't expected any proof for the lie.

 

Luke doesn't say anything for a while. He doesn't move, and Ben doesn't either. He feels entombed in dirt.

 

Finally, his uncle speaks. Softly, heavily, quietly.

 

"It was easier that way," he says, and there is a strange, unsettling, unexpected kindness to his voice. "After ... when I returned and found ..." Luke pauses, a long pause. "I made their funeral pyres," he continues, and Ben can hear the choked quality of his uncle's voice, the tears he's trying to hold back in order to speak. "Then I placed their a-ashes here, with these stones to mark them. All I ever said … to everyone besides your parents ... was that there had been an attack. It wasn't a lie. But I couldn't … no. That isn't right. I _wouldn't_ say what your part had been.”

 

Ben doesn't ask why. But Luke tells him.

 

“If the galaxy knew – or thought they knew – what happened here … I couldn't allow that to happen, Ben. I knew what they would think of you. What they would say. Of course, there were some who guessed the truth. Rumors spread. But for the most part, you were erased. Gone. That's one of the reasons I left. I couldn't bear it, because I knew ... I _knew_ you weren't gone forever." Luke draws a shuddering breath, and Ben knows he's trying to steady himself, but it doesn't work right away.

 

"We all went looking for you, spread out and searched for you ... but it was too late, by then. Snoke had hidden you too well, and ... and you were good at blocking me, when I called out to you."

 

Ben is too weak to flinch, so he just shivers. He remembers well.

 

"But even when I ... turned around and came back," Luke goes on, each word clearly causing him difficulty, but he keeps saying them anyway. "When I gave up. Yes, I admit it, I gave up. But only on my ability to bring you back. There was one thing I was certain of, Ben. I always knew that I would see you again. I always knew that you'd come back. One way or another." Luke pauses again, longer this time. He clears his throat, takes a moment, and when he speaks again, he almost sounds happy. "I have to say ... I'm grateful it happened this way. I'm grateful you're alive. I'm grateful to see you again. Grateful that you came in peace."

 

But inside of Ben, there is no peace. He is shattering once again, torn open from the inside.

 

"What _are_ you?" Ben cries out, from the depths of his heart. He whirls back to face his uncle for the first time since they reached the graveyard. He sees Luke Skywalker through stinging eyes, just a blur of tan and gray. "Weren't you even angry with me? Didn't you hate me? Don't you still hate me?"

 

Luke Skywalker makes a choking sound that's half-laugh, half-sob. "Don't you get it, Ben? Of course I felt anger. I was furious, enraged ... but never with you. My rage was for Snoke, and what he'd done, what he caused ..."

 

" _I_ did it," Ben insists, hot and cold in his veins, like an exploding star. "I'm the one who killed them! Snoke wasn't even in this star system ..."

 

"I know very well what happened here," his uncle says, and there is heat behind his words now. His voice might shake, but his resolve doesn't. "It was Snoke's will that the Jedi be wiped out. You were the weapon he chose to wield." The anger that Luke spoke of from years ago is present now, and strong. “He had no right.”

 

Ben swipes at the back of his eyes, trying to clear his vision. "But I let him ..."

 

"You were a _child_ , Ben!” Luke Skywalker shouts. “I'm not trying to wipe all of the blame from you; only you can know how far your own responsibility extends. You've done terrible things; what's the point in telling you that? You know that far better than I do. But to lay all of the fault on your shoulders? That would be wrong, as well. The truth is … it's my fault. I'm to blame."

 

Ben feels his jaw go loose. “What ...” He chokes on the first word, but finally manages to get the rest of the sentence out. “What are you talking about?”

 

He looks at his uncle now; he has to. He has to study his face he has to see the truth in his eyes he has to understand … if he can ever understand …

 

“You were my responsibility,” Luke Skywalker whispers, as if he doesn't have enough air to speak any louder. There are tears streaming down his face now, teardrop falling and making dark splotches in his beard. “Each one of you, from Jax to Laz, was under my guidance, my protection, and I failed to protect _any_ of you. They died because of me, because if I hadn't brought them here in the first place, it wouldn't have happened, and I hadn't gone away, if I had been here, it wouldn't have happened either. If I had been there for them, if I had been there for you … but I wasn't. Ben … Obi-Wan, I mean, and Master Yoda … they wanted me to teach the ways of the Force, to pass on the ways of the Jedi, and I failed. I failed Obi-Wan, I failed Yoda, I failed Jaz and Asharla and _Gi'ahli. I failed Draya and Krintian and Tyla and Rig. I failed Xialie and Ghiro and Mari, and Corme, and Venten, and Laz. I failed Leia. I failed H-Han._ And you … Ben, most of all, most of all I failed you.” Luke Skywalker hides his tearstained face behind his hands: one flesh, one metal.

 

Ben barely feels the tears running down his own face, or the burn of the sun overhead. He barely feels the ground beneath his feet. All he is aware of is the pain, the grief, the shame, the guilt … not only his own, which is weighty enough, but that of the last Jedi, as well.

 

Luke's shoulders shake once, but he makes no sound. At last, he seems able to speak again, and lifts his face from his hands to meet his nephew's eyes. Ben cannot look away, though he might want to.

 

“I barely knew my father,” Luke says now, and though he is speaking to Ben, his eyes seem far away. “We met only a handful of times before he died, and for the most part, we met as enemies. I barely knew him but … in the end, he told me … he told me that I had saved him. But you? Why couldn't I save you, Ben? I felt the Force _blaze_ with light the day that you were born. I loved you before I ever even met you, and when I did meet you, I adored you. When you suffered, I suffered. When your parents brought you here, I told them, I _promised_ them, that I would help you in any way I could. I told them and I told you that I would make things better. I wanted so badly to help you. And instead ...” Luke shakes his head, hard, strings of graying hair falling across his forehead, shadowing his face. “I didn't protect you, I didn't protect any of you, and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry ...” Luke seems to stagger, and instinctively, Ben reaches out to steady him, his hand firm on his uncle's shaking shoulder.

 

Luke's body steadies and so does his breathing, after a moment. With a sigh, he places his metal hand over Ben's gloved one, and holds on tight. Ben flinches even at this muted contact, certain that something bad must follow it, but nothing does. Luke holds onto him for a moment, then takes a deep breath, gives Ben's hand a squeeze, and steps away. The pain is still etched into his face, his eyes still gleaming with tears, but he stands a little straighter now, a little stronger.

 

"Why?" Ben asks, all of a sudden. He blurts the question out, unable to hold it back anymore, needing to fathom some part of his unfathomable uncle. "Chewie's right; why here? Why did you want to come back here? Why would you put yourself through this?” Ben doesn't understand it; if he had been given the choice, he would have avoided this place for the rest of his life ...

 

Luke Skywalker closes his eyes and bows his head. There is a melancholy feeling, a heaviness to the air around him. He lays his hand on the top of the stone nearest him: Venten's. It rests there for a few moments, while Luke Skywalker takes in a deep, slow breath, and releases it just as slowly.

 

"I had to come back," he says softly, “to remember why I left. I had to come back to remember what I was fighting for in the first place. And ...” Luke pauses, looks up, and holds Ben's gaze with his own. The tears seem to have been blinked away, at the least for the moment, and his blue eyes are steely. “And this is the place where Snoke believed he'd broken both of us. It seemed fitting that it be the place where we begin to prove him wrong.”

 

 _We._ Ben's mind is in turmoil again, his thoughts a vortex he can't slow down or soothe. He stares at the graves without really seeing them … but he still feels the weight of them on his lungs, on his heart.

 

“You still can't bring yourself to believe me,” Luke says. He's only stating a fact, but it's obvious it hurts him.

 

Ben shakes his head. “I ...” His hands go to his head, and he tugs at his hair anxiously, repetitively. “No, I don't. I can't. I'm sorry.”

 

Luke Skywalker frowns deeply, thoughtfully. "Ben, I know that you're troubled ..."

 

"I was troubled when I was ten," Ben tells him, rough-edged, voice breaking. He's hiding his face, he realizes, but he can't bring himself to stop. He looks at his uncle from between his fingers. "Now I'm a killer."

 

"Yes, you are," Luke Skywalker agrees, after the briefest of pauses. "But I've killed too, Ben. So has everyone you know, everyone you care for. We were all of us born into conflict. We all have blood on our hands."

 

Ben closes his eyes as the air goes out of him in a rush. Of all things, he had not expected this ... for Skywalker to throw his lot in with the fallen padawan, place himself on the same level as someone so broken and wretched. Skywalker, for all his flaws, is no Kylo Ren.

 

"Some of us have more blood on our hands than others," he says weakly, already tired.

 

To his amazement, his uncle _laughs_. It's a rather bitter laugh, no joy in it, but it still startles Ben so much he drops his hands and stares at Luke.

 

"There were a million people on the Death Star, Ben,” Luke Skywalker says.

 

Ben bites his lip, seeking the blood just below the surface, but eases the pressure just in time. He never had been able to look at his uncle quite the same way after learning that fact. _They were bad,_ he had tried to tell himself, so long ago. _They destroyed Alderaan; they killed my grandparents._ So that made whoever killed them a hero, didn't it? Most everyone else in the galaxy seemed to think so.

 

But Snoke hadn't, and the doubts, the confusion that learning Uncle Luke's body count had planted in small Ben's mind had been nourished by Snoke's whispers until they grow slowly, over time, to mistrust and even hatred …

 

"It's not the same,” Ben murmurs.

 

"Isn't it?” Luke muses. “A life taken is a life taken, Ben, and I've taken quite a few. We all did what we had to, that day and many other days, and I'm glad we won. It was the only way to win. That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, though. It would be a better world if we didn't have to raise our weapons, but that isn't the world we live in. That's why I was fighting, why your mother still fights ... to try and make a world in which life can flourish."

 

Now it's Ben's turn to cough out a bitter, mirthless laugh. “Is it?” he asks hollowly. “I don't think that's what I was fighting for. I told myself that it was, I wanted to believe that, but ..."

 

"But you're a terrible liar," Luke finishes gently.

 

"I'm a terrible _everything!_ ” Ben shouts. "But I'm a good fighter. I'm a good _killer_. I had that, at least. Now I don't know what I have. I don't know I'm supposed to do, or how ..." He bites his lip, can't believe he's sharing this, he doesn't want to share anything with this man.

 

Luke Skywalker just shakes his head. "Don't worry about that right now, Ben. You know more than you think you do, and in time, things will start to become clearer. For now ... just know that you are exactly where you're supposed to be."

 

Ben doesn't see how that could be true. _I'm supposed to be in that grave,_ he thinks wildly. “I shouldn't even be around other people,” he chokes out. “I'm wrong. I'm not okay. I'm not _safe_.”

 

“Maybe you're not. But maybe that's exactly _why_ you need to be around other people, Ben.” In that moment, Luke's patience seems as eternal as Obi-Wan's, the ghost's familiar tones seeming to echo in the living man's.

 

“I pity them,” Ben whispers.

 

“You mean Rey.”

 

Ben is silent. He just shakes. Something is going to break inside of him. Something is going to shatter very soon. He doesn't know much longer he will able to hold back the explosion, or how he will be able to repair the damage.

 

“She's come to care for you very much in a very short amount of time,” Luke observes.

 

“It's only out of necessity,” Ben snarls. The breaking has begun, darkness seeping back through the cracks in his soul. “It's only because she's starving. She's attached to me now, but once we get to the Resistance she's going to remember who her real friends are, and what I am. And once Snoke is gone, she won't need me anymore. I'm good for killing and that's it; I'm a weapon, not a person, don't you get it?” It's strange to him that all those awful words came out in a snarl that was little more than a whisper. Like he couldn't shout anymore, like he was taking his own breath with every word he spoke.

 

“You don't give her enough credit, I think,” Luke says gently. “She sees you more clearly than you think she does. Certainly more clearly than you see yourself.”

 

Like a bone bent too far in the wrong direction, Ben snaps.

 

He has to spread the brokenness outside of himself. He has to destroy something, and it doesn't take an instant to decide what.

 

There is a loud and awful noise, the sound of rocks tearing. A huge, jagged crack appears through the gravestone marked with Ben Solo's name, and other, smaller fissures soon ripple out from it, criss-crossing the surface of the stone like spiderweb patterns. The pieces shift and slide and come apart and crumble, burying the wildflowers beneath them and raising a cloud of gray dust.

 

When the dust has settled, Ben's rage still hasn't.

 

“You think you know me?” he demands in a ripped and ragged growl, glaring daggers at his uncle. “You have _no idea_ who I am anymore, no idea! When you look at me you still a confused child who made a mistake! But I'm not a child anymore, I can't be, because I …”

 

“Because you killed your father,” Luke finishes, sorrow written all across his face. Sorrow a lance driven through the Force between them.

 

“Don't interrupt me,” Ben says, and he's mortified to realize he's started crying, because of course he has. “I hate it when you interrupt me.”

 

“I'm sorry,” Luke says, his voice thick with fresh tears. Somehow, Ben knows that's not what he's apologizing for. “Sorry, Ben.”

 

And just like that, it's Ben who is sorry, so stricken with his sorrow and his guilt that he can't be angry anymore, can't hold his head up anymore, can't even stand anymore. He sinks to his knees in the pile of rubble that used to mark an empty grave, shaking with the weight of dead worlds on his back.

 

“How?” he asks, between sobs, and at first he doesn't even know what he's asking, until the words seem to come out of their own accord. “How can you apologize to me? How can you even stand to be near me? How can you look at me, how can you talk to me, how can you _joke_ with me, how … how ..."

 

His uncle's voice comes from behind him, soft but sure. "How can I love you?"

 

Well, the answer to that is obvious. "You can't."

 

"You're wrong about that, Ben."

 

Ben sinks low, collapses in on himself until his forehead touches the dirt and bits of shattered stone. He wraps his arms hard and tight around himself, maybe for comfort, maybe for punishment, maybe just to hold himself together as once again, his conception of the world around him falls apart.

 

He prepared himself a thousand times to face Luke Skywalker, braced himself a thousand times for fighting and words of hate, maybe even a death blow. That is all he deserves. That is all he has ever expected.

 

Never once had he thought to prepare himself for understanding, for compassion, for words of kindness. He never imagined forgiveness.

 

Memories rise up in his mind while the world around him seems to fade. Memories of what it was like before things got bad, when visits from Luke were rare but treasured events, when he still looked _up_ at Skywalker and saw the same golden hero that the rest of the galaxy saw. When Luke was more than just his uncle, he was his friend.

 

Could it ever be like that again? Could it ever be _anything_ like that?

 

"Uncle Luke ..." Ben whispers. He doesn't know what he wants to say. Maybe that _is_ what he wanted to say.

 

"Yes, Ben?"

 

The tenderness in his uncle's voice ... he can't bear it. This is all too much, he never had any illusions that he could handle it with grace but he also never imagined it would be this bad. How can something that's supposed to be good hurt so much? He can feel Luke standing nearer to him, senses the warmth of the hand hovering close to his shoulder, reaching out to comfort him …

 

_If he touches me, I'll die._

 

Ben scrambles to his feet, staggering backward like a cornered prey animal, nearly tripping in the process. His eyes rise to meet his uncle's, which are still filled with sadness, but not the slightest bit of confusion at his nephew's freakish behavior. _I never could surprise him,_ Ben remembers, against his will.

 

"I ... I have to go," Ben gasps. “I have to go, I'm sorry, I'm sorry ...” And with that, he turns and flees back into the trees as fast as his clumsy feet will take him, as far away from the last Jedi as he can get. He doesn't stop when Luke calls his name. He doesn't stop when he sees the trail that would take him back to the fire and Chewie and Rey and Artoo. He just doesn't stop. He can't bear for anyone to look at him with kindness right now. He can't stand to be looked at at all.

 

So when he runs, only the Yavin sun glares down at him, hot as the flames of any hell.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OHEMGH I am ... abjectly sorry that this update took so long?? Thank you all so much for your patience with my dysfunctional writing habits. Please please please leave a comment to let me know what you think; it warms my terrible angst-ridden heart <3


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, he can't even be alone without feeling the need to hide.

 

Ben falls asleep in the forest.

 

This is far from the first time that the Yavin trees have shaded him in slumber, though it has been a long while. Often he couldn't fall asleep under the roof of the Jedi school, no matter how desperately he tried. The other children talked too much and thought too loudly; added to the near-constant turmoil of his own mind, Ben had found this unbearable. When the noise got to him, he would sneak out into the night and wander the dark forest until the words inside his head faded to a low hum. Sometimes he would trudge back to the dormitory, but more often than not, he preferred to find a soft patch of moss, curl up, fall asleep, and dream of home.

 

This time he doesn't walk: he runs. He runs from the memory of all those other times, from the shadow of the boy he used to be, from all the lives he ended for no reason no reason no _reason_ and he runs from the thought of all of the people who have forgiven him for it. He runs from his past, he runs from his present, he runs from his future. He runs until he can't run any longer and then ... he falls.

 

Ben hits the ground hard on his hands and knees, feeling the impact like the planet itself is punching him. Weakened, he lets his limbs give out and rolls onto his side, and for a long time he just lies there, panting harshly as he takes the punishment of a body he's pushed too far. Inside his heavy layers of black, rent by some of the branches he ran through heedlessly, he's sticky with sweat and terribly hot. He hadn't felt it happening, but now he's aware of a long scratch on his neck, another on his chin, yet another on his forehead: shallow cuts, oozing blood and itching. His head is pounding frantically and so is his heart, reminding him that he's alive, and he doesn't much appreciate the reminder. The sound of his own breathing disgusts him: shallow pants barely stirring the dirt as he tries to draw air into his straining lungs. _Pathetic._ Self-loathing has physical consequences, constricting Ben's throat and chest and making it even more difficult to breathe, but there's nothing he can tell himself to make the feeling go away--nothing he can do to escape it.

 

Eventually, his breathing evens out. His heart resumes a strong and steady beat inside his chest, and although his thoughts remain hostile, their edges are dulled. His own mind has always been his worst weapon, but it's lost the power to hurt him for now.

 

Ben drags himself up into a sitting position and rakes a hand through the sweat-damp tangles of his hair, feeling empty, depleted of pretty much everything except aching and regrets. One thought keeps chasing itself, disjointed and echoing, around the inside of his brain: _Now what? Now what? Now what?_

 

The answer comes to him finally, elemental. _Water. You need water._ He can sense the flowing of a stream nearby, and it is pure physical need that drives him to his feet, helps him trudge to the stream and peel off his gloves and fill his mouth with handful after handful of cold water. Never mind that it has a faint tang of mud to it … he drinks until he can't drink anymore, splashes water over his face, and flops down onto the bank of the stream. Once settled there, he slouches forward, back bowed, his chin in his hands and a lump in his throat.

 

Now that the storm inside of him has blown over, Ben's ashamed. Ashamed of lashing out, ashamed of falling apart again ... but mostly, he's ashamed of running off and leaving Luke standing alone among the graves. Ben had a chance to be strong, an opportunity to be good, to be brave, and instead ... once again, he's proved himself a coward, proved himself unworthy, proved himself _weak_.

 

He draws in a shuddering breath and digs his fingernails into his chin, as his troubled mind once more resumes its churning. Running away hadn't felt wrong at the time … when he ran, he did it because was the only thing he knew how to do--the only thing he _could_ do. But now, seen more clearly, he knows that it's just another mark on the long, long list of things he needs to atone for.

 

_Will I ever be able to fix one mistake without making another one?_

 

This thought cuts Ben deep, draining him of what little energy he had managed to gather. With a feeble groan, he rolls onto his back in the thick green moss alongside the stream, hiding his scratched and dirty face in his hands. But the sunlight still finds him, jabbing down through the forest canopy and between his fingers. To thwart it, he turns over onto his side and tucks his head under his arm, squeezing his eyes shut tight in defiance of the light. At least it's cooler here: in the shade, in the dirt, by the water. His scratches have stopped bleeding; his head's not pounding anymore; it no longer hurts him to breathe. For one keenly painful moment, he wishes for his father, but with a muffled groan, he shoves that thought away lest he summon Han Solo inadvertently. By now, he really believes that he can count on the ghost to appear … but he doesn't want his dad to see him like this, lying on the ground yet again. _He'd be disappointed. I'm not calling on him again, not until I fix this._

 

Ben knows what he ought to do in order to fix this. He should get up, dust himself off, walk back the way he came, apologize to Luke and try to be a normal human being … or at least as normal as he's capable of. He knows all this but instead of doing any of it, he keeps lying there, feeling heavier and more stuck with every passing second.

 

_I'll get up now,_ he tells himself. But he doesn't move.

 

_Just a few more minutes, then. I'll just rest for a few more minutes. Then I'll get up. I'll stand up and go back there and say sorry to Uncle Luke. I **will.** _

 

Those few more minutes pass, and a few more, and still he lies with his arm over his face and he hasn't budged except to curl farther into himself, his knees pulled up, head tucked down, face concealed. Apparently, he can't even be alone without feeling the need to hide. He doesn't understand why he can't seem to do something so simple as standing up. It's like his own mind is keeping him pinned to the ground, refusing to let his body obey him. What is wrong with him? He has commanded armies, and now he can't even command his own limbs?

 

_After everything that's happened, are you still that weak? Can it be that somehow you're even weaker than you were before? Get_ _**up** _ _, you useless idiot!_

 

Ben smacks his hand against his face, aiming for the fresh cut on his cheek, but this fails to motivate him. In his present state, he can't even summon up the will to make it hurt. So he sighs and squeezes his eyes shut and goes on lying there, not because it's what he necessarily wants to do but because it's the only thing that even feels possible and he knows that one of two things will happen: either he will eventually get up, or he'll fall asleep.

 

He falls asleep.

 

\- -

 

Hours later, when he's awoken by the cracking and rustling in the brush, his body has no trouble responding to the alarm sirens in his mind. Alert in an instant, Ben snaps up and drops to a defensive crouch, his hand flying to the hilt of his lightsaber …

 

… and a familiar rounded shape comes trundling out of the undergrowth. Artoo-Detoo, seeing Ben, screeches dramatically to a halt, falls forward, and lands with a _clunk_ on the ground.

 

Ben lets his breath out heavily, straightens up, and hurries to assist Artoo, lifting and steadying the pitifully whistling atromech. “You're all muddy, Artoo,” he observes in a sleep-rusted voice.

 

Artoo scoots back to look up at him, the whistles giving way to a reproachful series of beeps.

 

Heat creeps into Ben's face as his shame returns. “Well, I didn't _ask_ you to look for me.”

 

Artoo beeps fast and loud, his tirade ending on a note pitched so high it sounds like a squawking bird.

 

“Who are you calling a brat?” Ben snaps. “Watch it, Artoo, unless you'd like your circuits scrambled.” A hollow threat. Artoo-Deetoo isn't some inanimate computer console for Ben to vent his rage on. He's family, and Ben's done – or trying to be done – with hurting his family.

 

_And he did come looking for me. Even though nobody asked him to._

 

“Thanks,” Ben mumbles, hanging his head. “Thanks, Artoo. I owe you one.”

 

Having received praise, Artoo is appeased and croons that it was nothing.

 

Ben smiles down at the little droid … a small smile, which fades fast when he remembers why he's out here needing to be found in the first place. But at least now he's standing, and at least, now, there's something he can fix. After a much-needed stretch of his misused muscles, Ben pats Artoo. “Come on, then. Let's go get you cleaned up.”

 

Artoo chirrups happily and follows Ben out of the woods. The sun is higher in the bright blue sky now; it's growing late in the afternoon.

 

_I must have slept for hours._ It's no way for a warrior to cope with life, and yet … in spite of that, maybe it was the best thing that he could have done. Under the shelter of the Yavin trees there had been no nightmares, no bad memories, only rest. Foolish and cowardly though his flight into the woods had been, it seems to have done him some good after all: cleared out some space inside his head. At the very least, he can move again.

 

When they get to the Falcon, no one else is around. Ben pauses on the ramp, lifting his scratched and sticky face to feel the brush of an afternoon breeze. He can sense the others as clearly if their scents were carried to him on the wind. They are not far away, but for now he and Artoo have the place to themselves. Just as well.

 

Once inside the protection of the Falcon – _home_ – Ben shucks the other layers of his dirty clothes almost immediately, tossing them into a heedless pile on the floor. Blessedly cool in his trousers and undershirt, he ties his hopelessly tangled hair back out of his face, fetches the cleaning supplies, and sets to work removing the dirt and mud from Artoo's coverings. It feels good to do something for somebody else, even a small thing like this, and the task is mindless enough that he can lose himself in it, like meditation. In fact, Ben's deeply absorbed in his work that he fails to notice Rey's approach until she's already aboard the Falcon, her footfalls making their way towards him and Artoo, swift and unerring. Ben goes so tense that for a moment he stops moving. Artoo chirps and breaks the spell, and Ben throws himself into his work and pretends not to notice Rey's approach. It might be stupid, but it feels like the safest option, until he can gauge what she's come for.

 

“Oh, good,” Rey says from behind him, sounding slightly breathless. She shifts her weight, clears her throat, and repeats, more steadily, “Good.” She moves into Ben's line of sight, but he doesn't look directly at her; she remains a golden-brown blur in his peripheral vision. “You came back.”

 

Ben bites his lip, squares his shoulders, nods, and keeps working.

 

“I was a little worried when you didn't come back to the base,” Rey continues, settling down cross-legged on the floor near Ben and Artoo. “So was Chewie. But Master Luke said you just needed to be alone for a while.”

 

Ben nods again, and as he stares, hyper-fixated, on the swirls of dirt beneath his hand, he realizes he's been cleaning the same section of Artoo ever since Rey walked in. He tries to focus, but his hand is unsteady and his breathing uneven. So she hasn't come to shout at him, but he almost wishes that she had. He can do confrontation, but conversation is still something that he's struggling with. What does he say? What does she want from him?

 

“Are you … do you still want to be alone?” Rey asks. There's a flicker of doubt in her voice, doubt beginning to form around her like a dark cloud, but before Ben can even decide how to answer, Artoo blurts out a shrill, indignant whistle.

 

Ben feels the corners of his mouth quirk up in a smile he hadn't anticipated. Rey laughs, the cloud around her dissipating as quickly as it had begun to form, scattered by mirthful sunlight.

 

“You're right, Artoo, I'm sorry,” she says contritely, her smile audible in her voice. “Of course he's not alone. You were just being uncharacteristically quiet, that's all.”

 

Artoo chirps to indicate that no offense is taken. Rey beams, and Ben tamps down on his own smile because he's remembered that he doesn't deserve to be happy. He scrapes at some stubborn dried dirt on Artoo's casing, and his face pulls into a painful grimace.

 

“It's fine,” he mumbles, in answer to Rey's earlier question. “I'm … fine. You can go if you want.”

 

Rey is quiet, just for a moment. “What if I want to stay?”

 

Ben squeezes his eyes shut, his hands going still again, his motions arrested. Inside, he's struggling with an unnameable emotion that he doesn't understand and doesn't like. At last he opens his eyes; his hand is a dirty fist around the cleaning cloth, resting against Artoo's side. “That's … fine, too.” _That's enough, you've said enough, don't say anything else …_ but of course that's exactly what he does.

 

“I don't know why you'd _want_ to stay, though,” Ben blurts out, venom in his tone. “I'm not exactly pleasant company right now. Or ever. You … you ought to know that better than anyone. All I ever do is make things worse and additionally, I smell bad …” Ben's words trail off as he realizes how whiny he sounds, and he clamps his stupid mouth shut and sneaks a wary glance up at Rey from beneath his eyelashes.

 

Rey is looking over at him with raised eyebrows, distinctly unimpressed. “Are you done?” she asks coolly.

 

Ben slumps his shoulders and sighs heavily. Exhausted, he rubs his free hand over his scratched face, getting dirt and oil on himself, unable to care. “Yes.”

 

“Good.” Rey stretches and shakes her hair loose around her shoulders, beginning to finger-comb the tangles out of it. She smells like the outside: grass and trees and flowers and the sun. When she's concentrating on a difficult knot, her nose scrunches up and the tip of her tongue is just visible between her lips …

 

Artoo impatiently zaps Ben with a small electric shock. Ben yelps, more in surprise than in pain, and glares at the astromech, who whistles innocently as if there was someone else to blame. Rey laughs once, quick and sharp, and Ben grumbles.

 

“Can I help, Artoo?” Rey suggests. “You'll be clean faster.”

 

Artoo beeps affirmation, and Rey grabs one of the cleaning cloths and gets to work on Artoo's other side. Ben resumes his own cleaning, and they work in silence for a little while, Artoo positively basking in the attention. At one point Ben and Rey's hands collide; he pulls back as if burned, blushing all the way to his ears. Rey continues scrubbing, apparently unfazed.

 

“You were right,” Ben says, after a little while.

 

Rey's voice is very light when she asks him “Could you be a little more specific?”

 

“About Luke,” Ben admits. He darts a look at Rey's face, and finds her almost smirking with delight.

 

“I hate to say I told you so ...”

 

“Like hell you do,” Ben interrupts, feeling himself starting to smile in return.

 

“Now it's your turn to be right about something.”

 

“That doesn't happen every day,” deadpans Ben.

 

Rey giggles, Artoo whirrs and shakes, and even Ben has to muffle a laugh at his own expense. It's a strange sensation, but he doesn't mind it. It makes him feel less heavy, somehow, like he's releasing something that's been weighing him down. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the shine of Artoo's now-clean side and if it weren't for the scar slashing across it, Ben would hardly know himself. There's a sparkle in the mirror of his eyes that he's never seen … not on himself, anyway.

 

Hastily breaking eye contact with his reflection,

 

“You seem … better,” Ben says next, after another little while.

 

Rey nods. “Talking to Master Luke helped.”

 

“Good … that's good. I'm glad.” And he is: glad that Rey's fears have been eased for the moment. Even if he does feel a slight tinge of resentment that he wasn't able to be the one to ease them, that he couldn't help her. Even if he still hates himself for causing her this trouble in the first place. With difficulty, he swallows both his shame and his pride and haltingly inquires “Was he … was he able to give you any advice? About ...” He doesn't complete the sentence; they both know who he's referring to.

 

“He said ...” Rey pauses, sitting back on her heels with a cleaning cloth momentarily forgotten in her hand. “He said that the most important thing I can do right now is to keep talking about it. Not to hide things, when they happen ... not to keep secrets. Not to be ashamed, or to feel like it's my fault ...” She breaks off, her face darkening.

 

_It's_ _ **my**_ _fault,_ Ben thinks, but doesn't say. He's sure she already is thinking the same thing.

 

“Master Luke says that Snoke's weapon of choice is a lie,” Rey continues, her voice soft, little more than a whisper. She looks down at her hands, now twisting the cleaning cloth back and forth restlessly. “And the strongest weapon that we can employ against him is truth.”

 

Personally, Ben thinks that the strongest weapon he would like to employ against Snoke is his lightsaber, severing Snoke's warped head from his body. The vision is strong and thick and tactile and darkly satisfying, like food to his starving soul; he can see the red light reflecting in those black-void eyes as they widen in mortal dread, he can hear the gurgle of the broken, dying creature, he can smell the burning, charred flesh …

 

Rey shudders pulling her knees up, curling in on herself as though for warmth. There's an unusual pallor to her face. “Thanks for sharing,” she mutters dryly.

 

Ben grits his teeth. “I didn't mean to ...”

 

“Don't misunderstand,” Rey interrupts, raising her eyes to peer intently into Ben's. “I'd like to see that too. But for now, the death and dismemberment will have to wait.” Her eyes glitter and the corner of her mouth quirks ever so slightly.

 

“Uncle Luke … you're quoting him,” Ben observes, certain of this and uncertain how he feels about it.

 

“You caught me,” Rey admits, the quirk of her mouth more pronounced now, almost but not quite a grim smile. “Anyway, his point is, if Snoke keeps coming back to bother me – or you – then the best and most powerful thing we can do about it is to refuse to hide it. Refuse to believe him.”

 

Ben chews on this for a few moments, grounding himself with the cold feel of Artoo's casing beneath the palm of his hand. Artoo seems to be listening and considering as well.

 

“But ...” Ben reconsiders, shakes his head. “Never mind.”

 

“No, what is it?” Rey leans forward. She has her color back and she's studying him with the look of creature that won't be thwarted. “Tell me, Ben.”

 

It sounds like a command, which might be the only thing that enables Ben to actually say it. He looks back at Rey over the top of Artoo's head, his spine a little straighter. “Uncle Luke isn't wrong,” he says slowly, carefully. “But he's not totally right, either. Supreme Leader lies ...” He flinches a little, he can't help it, but how after all he knows can those words still feel like treason? “... but that's not his greatest weapon. Truth … that's his greatest weapon. The lies don't work without it. He takes the truth and wraps it up lies, just so you can still recognize it, just so you know he's right ...”

 

… _you hurt everyone you love your father fears you your mother wants to get rid of you your uncle will never understand you you will never be like them you will never be accepted you will never be understood you will never be loved …_

 

“He's _not_ right.” Rey's voice cuts into the flashback as surely as a lightsaber would and claims all of Ben's attention. “He's never been right. He's wrong about you and he's wrong about me, he's wrong about everything in the entire galaxy and he's going to die because of it.” Her teeth are bared on the end of the sentence, gritted with a violent determination. Artoo whistles ear-piercingly loud approval.

 

“Rey, I want to believe that,” Ben says, “but …”

 

“... but you've spent your entire life listening to him,” Rey finishes. She's still fierce, but gentle at the same time. “I know. But I really believe it ... that if we can just shed light on those deep dark things he uses against us … if we take them back from him, then they aren't his weapons anymore. They're ours.”

 

She keeps saying things like “we” and “our” but it's not sinking in for Ben, because he's been alone with this his entire life and how can he share it now?

 

“ … keep talking to Master Luke about it, and keep talking to you,” Rey is saying now, “that's what's going to help. And I want to learn everything I can about the Force … everything you know.”

 

Ben is certain he can't have heard her correctly. “Everything _I_ know?”

 

She nods, leveling a dark gaze at him.

 

“Your master won't like that,” Ben informs her.

 

“Like it?” Rey scoffs. “Ben, he suggested it!”

 

Ben reels inwardly. The entire time they've been journeying toward the last Jedi, he's been convinced that everything would change when they arrived, and not for the better. He's been preparing himself – or trying to prepare himself – for a distance to grow between him and Rey, encouraged by his uncle. Once again, Luke Skywalker has shocked Ben Solo completely.

 

“I hadn't thought … that he would want me interfering with his training,” Ben says with some difficulty.

 

“Not interfering, you idiot,” Rey clarifies, not unkindly. “Helping. Unless you don't want ...”

 

“You know I want to,” Ben interrupts, immediately embarrassed by his own enthusiasm. He tries to appear flippant. “I just didn't think my uncle would want you learning anything from a darksider, that's all. Afraid I might be a bad influence.”

 

Rey makes a face at him, but other than that she refuses to take the bait. “He was really impressed that you managed to get me meditating.”

 

Ben squirms, uncomfortable with this. It doesn't feel right to accept his uncle's praise when he's out there in the trees somewhere, by himself, still holding onto whatever kindness he had been trying to offer Ben when he ran away …

 

“It's going to be fine, you know,” Rey says now, with confidence. “We just have to keep being brave.” Her shrug of acceptance belies the apprehension, the restless energy he senses from her.

 

“I'm not brave,” Ben says flatly.

 

Rey looks up at him, her eyes wide, head tilted with a look of complete surprise. “You don't think so?”

 

Ben lowers his eyes, focusing on the hands that are curled loosely into fists on his thighs, wrapped around the dirty cloth he's been using to clean Artoo. “It's true, Rey. I'm not brave, I'm reckless. I have power, but I'm not strong. Not inside. Not like you are. There's something ... something I'm missing. My mother has it, my uncle has it, even my dad … but not me. I don't. On the inside, I'm just … empty. Hollow. I'm an echo chamber for darkness. I'm no galactic hero, and I never will be.” He believes that, with all his heart.

 

Rey had been frowning as he spoke, but now her small, quick smile takes him by surprise.

 

“What's funny?” Ben demands, scowling deeply.

 

“Nothing. That just reminds me of something that Finn said to me once.” She pauses. “You're both wrong, by the way.”

 

The mention of Finn sets Ben's teeth on edge. “But you don't _know_ ...”

 

Rey throws her cleaning cloth at him, and it hits him in the face. Sputtering, Ben instinctively hurls his cloth at her too, but Rey calls on the Force to send it flying back and hitting him too.

 

“How many times have we been inside each other's heads now, Ben?” Rey says, while he's still recovering from the shock. “Are you really telling me there's anything I don't know about you? All right, I mean, I may not know _everything,_ like what your favorite color is, but I think by now it's safe to say I know who you _are_...”

 

“Blue,” Ben mumbles.

 

Rey halts mid-sentence, blinking at him. “What?”

 

“My favorite color. It's blue.” A weird peace has come over Ben, a feeling of assurance, almost safety. Maybe he and Rey will be okay, at least for a little while longer. As long as the people he cares about remain too stubborn to give up on him, he might as well give it a try. “What's yours?”

 

“Green,” Rey says after a moment. Her voice is soft, the tension around her eased. The peace … she feels it, too.

 

Ben smiles. “I thought so.”

 

They are both quiet for a moment, until Artoo breaks in with a low, surly beep.

 

“I'm sure we would both love to know your favorite color, Artoo,” Rey kindly says.

 

Artoo informs them, in no uncertain terms, that his favorite color is the color he is when he is _clean_.

 

Ben and Rey look at each other, both fighting back laughter … and then, chastened, they get back to work, helping their friend.

 

\- -

 

Chewie gets back to the Falcon not long after that, toting on his back a bloody sackful of game he's apparently spent the afternoon catching. He doesn't make a fuss over any of the day's events, only tousles Ben's already tousled and filthy hair. Ben pretends not to enjoy the gesture, but he doesn't pretend very hard.

 

“Have you seen Uncle Luke?” he asks.

 

Chewie whines and shrugs. Apparently Luke only said that he had something he wanted to see to, before they left.

 

“It's all right, Chewie,” Ben murmurs, patting the Wookiee's shoulder. “I think I know where to find him.”

 

And find him there he does: the Jedi on his knees before a gravestone, a small pile of pulled weeds at his side, as he tugs loose more from the ground around the base of the stone. His expression is an inward one; even as the old man brushes dirt from his robe, his thoughts are clearly elsewhere, his eyes on a different time.

 

Ben approaches slowly, feeling once more the weight of those stones settling on him, lading him down with every step. But he takes the weight and keeps on walking, finally kneeling beside Luke Skywalker, silently joining him in his task.

 

Together, Luke and Ben relentlessly uproot invading weeds and encroaching grass, brush the settled dust from the names on the stones so they can be clearly read. Luke wanders the field and the edges of the forest, gathering an armload of wildflowers, while Ben summons a small wind to sweep away the crumbled fragments of the stone that once had borne his name, using the Force to stir the ground until there is no trace of him there at all.

 

Luke returns with his flowers and begins to lay them out beside the stones. He seems to have chosen his offerings with great care, and Ben watches, but does not intrude. At the last, Luke pauses, a single flower left in his gloved hand. He seems to study it for a moment before holding it out to Ben.

 

Ben takes the flower – purple and fluffy in appearance, though it prickles to the touch – and gingerly lays it down on the top of the stone in front of him. _Asharla would have liked that flower,_ he thinks. The thought hurts, as it should. _She liked purple._

 

They stand there for a little while, reading the names. Remembering. The sun is just now sinking, settling itself from late afternoon to early evening, casting orange-gold light over the treetops.

 

“I'm sorry for running off,” Ben tells his uncle quietly.

 

“It's all right. I know that sometimes it feels like running is all that's left,” Luke says softly, turning towards Ben with the saddest smile on his face.

 

“You blame yourself,” Ben says, suddenly, before he can talk himself out of saying it. “I know that. But I … I don't hold you to blame for it. Not anymore.” As he says these words, Ben is startled and relieved to find that they are true.

 

Luke's eyes widen, his chin trembles. “Ben ...”

 

But Ben won't be interrupted this time. “What happened here wasn't your fault … the others would say the same, if they could. What happened to me, with Snoke … that wasn't your fault either. You can't take responsibility for everything that goes wrong in the galaxy, you know.”

 

“You sound like Obi-Wan,” Luke murmurs, that same sad smile haunting his features. “That's what he's always telling me.”

 

“He's right,” Ben says flatly. “Whether you blame Snoke or blame me, I don't care, but stop blaming yourself. Whatever it is you think you need forgiveness for … you have it. I forgive you.” Ben pauses, repeats it, his voice soft and deep and certain, almost a stranger's voice. But these words are completely his, only his to give, and he gives them with all his heart. “I forgive you.”

 

Luke Skywalker's face, stormy with confusion and grief, goes calm and still. He lowers his gray head, releasing his breath, closing his eyes. When he straightens and looks his nephew in the face again, his eyes are clear and shimmering as tranquil seas. It's like looking into the eyes of a man twenty years younger.

 

“Thank you, Ben,” Luke says warmly. “Thank you for that.” He holds out his hand, and Ben stares stupidly at it for a second before reaching out and hesitantly taking it in his own.

 

“I forgive you, too,” his uncle tells him. “Actually, I forgave you a long time ago … but now I can tell you.” Luke Skywalker sighs again, and then he smiles. “It feels good to finally say it.”

 

It does not feel so good to hear. How could it? Ben knows he doesn't deserve forgiveness and even if he did, the ones who have the power to grant it to him are all bones beneath his feet now, their tombstones casting long shadows across the ground. Guilt sickens within him, upsetting his stomach, stinging his eyes, shaking in his hands and knees, and he wants to flee, he wants to hide … but this time, he doesn't.

 

_Because that's exactly what Snoke would want me to do._

 

It's a strange, unsettling knowledge, but he knows that it's true. Luke and Rey might have a point. He's only just beginning to learn how to undo what was done to him, what he's done to himself. This doubt, this shame … he recognizes that it is useless, empty. It will only eat chunks of him and leave him weaker, and the only one who benefits from that is the Supreme Leader.

 

_I won't give you any more of me,_ Ben thinks. _I'm keeping all that's left of myself, and I'm keeping this forgiveness, even if I don't deserve it. I didn't deserve what you gave me either, did I? But it's mine. It belongs to me. All of it belongs to me._

 

“Are you all right, Ben?” Luke asks him kindly.

 

Ben looks down into his uncle's eyes, and nods. “All right. You?”

 

“Better than I can remember,” Luke tells him.

 

“Then,” Ben says, with one last look at the graves, “I think … I think it's time that we both went home.”

 

“I think you're right,” Luke Skywalker agrees.

 

With a quiet born of understanding, they both turn to face the brilliance of the setting sun.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i LIIIIIIIIVE


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For years, he has tried to make the whole world think the worst of him. He shouldn't be surprised that he succeeded.

When Luke and Ben step out of the humid evening air and into the Falcon, Han Solo is the first thing they see, leaning against the wall and waiting for them, hands in his pockets and a soft smile on his face.

 

“Good to see you again, kid.” It takes Ben a second to realize he's not the “kid” in question.

 

Luke has gone still at the sight of the ghost, who really doesn't look much like a ghost right now, but almost as vivid as life. It takes him several moments to recover, and Ben notes a glimmer in his uncle's eyes, the sheen of tears that do not fall.

 

“It's been a long time since anyone called me that,” Luke says at last, his voice barely audible, a half-smile struggling on his face.

 

Han flashes a rueful grin and just like that, shrugs off the intervening years and all the unspoken words in a moment. “C'mere, you,” he says gruffly, reaching out and pulling Luke into a tight hug. Sight had not prepared Luke for the sensation of being embraced by a ghost, and for a moment he seems to shrink inside his robe, unable to react or uncertain how to … but it comes to him, soon enough, and Luke hugs Han back with the fear and loneliness of exile. Ben, meanwhile, bites his fingernails and looks at the floor and wonders what it would have been like to have a brother.

 

Han pulls back slightly, holding onto Luke's arms, and looks him and down with critical but twinkling eyes. “That beard makes you look like a sad hobo.”

 

“Exactly the look was going for,” Luke shoots back, with a half-hearted smile. His eyes are suspiciously shiny.

 

Han scoffs. “Please tell me you're gonna shave that thing before you get to D'Qar.”

 

Luke laughs, a short but true laugh, and blithely blinks away all trace of tears. “Not a chance.”

 

Footsteps bang down the corridor and Rey appears, removing a pair of grease-stained leather gloves as she goes. Her hair is messy, small curls forming all along her hairline, and there's a streak of grease across her left cheek and part of her nose. Ben considers mentioning this, but decides not to.

 

“Everything's ready,” Rey tells them all, taking the odd gathering in her eager stride. “Shall we go?”

 

“We shall,” Luke Skywalker agrees.

 

\- - -

 

 

 

Chewie says it will take part of a day for them to reach D'Qar. In the meantime, there doesn't seem to be much to do but wait. Wait, and worry.

 

Ben hides himself away in the fresher room for as long as he can, scrubbing his skin so clean it feels raw, brushing his hair properly for the first time in days. He washes his clothes as well; he might be a runaway and fugitive but that doesn't mean he has to look like one. What he does look like is tired, and spent, and sad, and … scared. For the second time in a very short time, his life, as he has come to know it, will be over.

 

Maybe that's a bit dramatic, but it's true. Everything is going to change in only a handful of hours, and Ben is not ready. They're going to a place he doesn't know, a cause he doesn't trust, and people who will certainly have no reason to trust him. All that he cares about reaching in that place is his mother, and even that is a thought so sensitive that he can barely bring himself to dwell on it; it feels like punching a bruise, something he promised he wouldn't do anymore. But pain is what Ben Solo knows best, and it's the only thing that he can be certain the future will bring.

 

Just like he knows that when they get to the Resistance – and they will be there very soon – everything that he has come to know, everything he's grown to rely on, everything that has been holding him together since he first fell into the light? All of it is about to change. There will be no more meals in the Falcon's kitchen with Chewie. No more shared smiles and confidences and cups of tea with Rey. Even his uncle will no longer be his, he'll be the galaxy's hero once again, a piece of their legends come back to life among them, their savior restored and ready to resume saving people who actually deserve it.

 

What is _he_ going to be? A captive? A curiosity? A pariah? He can't be Kylo Ren anymore, but they're not going to let him be Ben Solo. Where does that leave him? _Who_ does that leave him?

 

He's bitter in his heart, twisted up inside his mind, because he knows he's going to lose it all and yet he knows he doesn't deserve it in the first place, so … what right does he have to be upset? But he _is_ upset. He's selfish and small and shaky and unstable, navigating the fault lines in his life that were never going to be repaired, no matter what he did. He has to be pulled back from edges all the time, but what if there is no one there to do the pulling? How will he ever crawl back up again? How will he do it without help?

 

Ben realizes he's been standing in front of the fresher door for a long time without moving, without being aware of anything but the trouble in his spirit. Placing his bare hands on the cool metal, he presses down, letting the coolness spread across his skin, making himself mindful of his breaths, taking them in, long and steady and deep. This gives him clarity, just enough to know that if he stays in here, alone and wavering, he'll hurt himself. So he lets himself out and moves slow and quiet down the corridor, toward the main hold. As he nears, he makes out voices, low and familiar and companionable. It's like stepping back in time. How often when he was small had his father and his uncle sat in this exact same place, talking together in this exact fashion?

 

And, as he had often done in long ago years, Ben sneaks up as close as he can get without being seen, sits down cross-legged in the corridor, leans back against the wall, and listens. It's a good compromise, he thinks to himself: being alone but not really alone.

 

“ … made my peace with most of the past,” Luke is saying, in a solemn voice. “As much as I'm ever going to be able to. But I'll always regret leaving Leia behind.”

 

Han takes a long time to answer. “I'd chew you out for it,” he says heavily, “if it weren't that I'd done the same damn thing myself.” Another pause, even longer than the first, and his voice even heavier when he speaks again. “Least you're comin' back alive. That's something.”

 

Ben wraps the pain of those words around himself, cold and heavy, carrying the regrets of everybody in his bloodline along with his own.

 

Wearily, Luke asks, “What were we thinking?”

 

“I don't know about you, kid,” Han answers, “but I was thinkin' what I'd known all along … that she'd be better off without me.”

 

“I felt the same,” Luke admits. “That she didn't truly need me, or even want me around after … after what happened. That she would be fine without my presence there. She's the strongest person I've ever known, but ...”

 

“... but that don't mean she should have had to be.” Han's voice is rough.

 

“No. She never should have had to be.”

 

Ben knows well enough that he should go find something else to occupy his mind – and his ears – but he doesn't budge. He stays instead, to hear Luke ask a question that Ben himself had asked his father once before.

 

“You could have gone to her, couldn't you, Han? When you first returned, or since then. Why haven't you?” Luke sounds only curious.

 

“Because, Luke. I got a promise to keep. The last thing Leia ever … the last thing she asked me for was to bring our son home. And he and I both made a real big mess of it, but we're trying to do better now. Anyway …” Han pauses to clear his throat. “Anyway, until Leia has Ben back safe again, until he is home with her, … I won't be, either. I don't deserve to be.”

 

Out in the corridor, Ben scrunches in on himself, trying to crush the guilt rising up in him, but it doesn't have time to get very strong before Luke speaks up. “He loves you very much, you know.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Your son,” Luke stresses. “His love for you is powerful, almost as powerful as your love for him. That's what's keeping you tied to this world. That's how you're able to manifest so strongly, and so often.”

 

Ben digs his fingernails into his palms, every admonishment of Snoke's on the subject of love coming back to goad him. _There's nothing wrong with it,_ he tries to tell himself.

 

_Well then there must be something wrong with **you** , because you kill what you love. _

 

“Yeah, well ...” Han Solo mumbles, the gruffness of his voice bringing Ben back to reality. “I wish he'd spend a little less of his energy on me and more on taking care of himself.”

 

“You know he's listening,” Luke says, amused.

 

Ben frowns, his self-loathing momentarily put aside by the grumpiness he feels, getting caught eavesdropping like a little kid.

 

Han snorts. “He better be!”

 

Defeated, Ben stands up and slouches into the hold with a frown still on his face. His uncle and his dad are having a laugh at his expense, but since they were both sitting around being glum and regretful only a few moments ago, maybe Ben doesn't mind … too much.

 

“I hope that you're enjoying your gossip,” he says sarcastically.

 

“Don't tempt me, kid,” his dad retorts, a familiar twinkle in his eye. The ghost is lounging casually, his feet up on the table, his hands folded behind his head. “I got plenty of stories I could tell on you.”

 

“I'm sure there's nothing you could tell Luke that would surprise him,” Ben replies with bad grace.

 

“What's troubling you, Ben?” his uncle asks. Like Han Solo, he's leaning against the wall, looking at ease and at home in a way Ben he hasn't since this morning. His eyes are keen but gentle, and attentive on Ben. As if he really cares.

 

 _He does,_ Ben reminds himself, testing the notion in much the same way he has to test his muscles after an injury. _He_ _ **does**_ _really care._ It's still so difficult for him to believe, but if there was ever a time to test it …

 

Ben takes a seat across from the two older men. “Do you want a list?”

 

“That could prove to be helpful,” Luke genially replies.

 

Unprepared to be taken seriously, Ben goes quiet, and tries to think. If he really were to reel off an exhaustive list of all his problems, they'd be sitting here for several standard years. But when he tries to think about what to say, what's troubling him most deeply in that moment, all he ends up saying is: “I'm not a Jedi.”

 

Both Luke and Han study him intently, but only Skywalker speaks. “I see. And that troubles you?”

 

“No! I mean, not exactly ...” Ben bites his lip and rakes a hand through his hair, as he struggles to express what he really means, what he really feels. That's something he's always struggled with, but now that he's actually being encouraged to express his true feelings, it's just as difficult in its own way as trying to bury them. “Being a Jedi … I don't think I could do it even if I wanted to, Uncle Luke. Who I am is …” Ben shakes his head. “I just don't think that's who I am.”

 

This much, he knows to be true. Becoming a Jedi like his grandfather and uncle before him had been the dream of a younger, more innocent boy. It was a simple, noble dream: clean and pretty and neat, and he woke from it a long time ago. It's far too late for him to ever close his eyes and go back to it. He knows too much: about the Force, about the galaxy, about himself. All his life, Ben Solo has been trying to cut himself into shapes that will fit what he thinks is required of him. Never once has he been able to do it: not as a son, not as a padawan, not as Snoke's puppet or the master of the Knights of Ren or a commander of the First Order. He cannot sever or alter the incongruous parts of him, but neither can he reconcile them. So what _can_ he do?

 

“You don't have to be a Jedi,” Luke Skywalker says, as if it were just that simple.

 

Han Solo nods, grasping something Ben can't yet understand.

 

“But if I'm not a Jedi, and I'm not on the Dark side, then ... what the hell am I?”

 

“You're _you,_ ” his father tells him fiercely.

 

“That's not enough,” Ben murmurs, his voice catching in his throat. And then, just as truthfully, “it's too much.”

 

“Not true,” his father tells him, shaking his head. “I know it's how you feel, kid, but that don't make it the truth. You are enough; you've always been enough.”

 

Ben's eyes well and burn. Once more he feels adrift, unknown by those who ought to know him best. He wants to believe what his family is saying, but he can't. How can he possibly make them understand how impossible it is for him to just _be_ …

 

“It's not that easy,” he argues, his knuckles cracking as his hands curl into fists. “I thought that I could get rid of the light in me, okay, I was wrong. Now I try – you do know that I'm trying, right? – to get rid of the darkness in me and I can't do that either. I can't keep doing this, I can't live this way, I _can't_ ...”

 

“Ben,” Luke Skywalker says firmly, reaching across the table to take hold of his nephew's hand. “Look at me. Listen to me. _You don't have to._ ”

 

With the Jedi's gaze piercing his, Ben feels as though his soul is pierced as well.

 

“There are other paths to walk,” Luke says to Ben, “besides the narrow ones you've tried to force yourself to keep to.”

 

“What … how … how do you know?”

 

To Ben's surprise, Luke laughs. “What do you think that I've been doing all these years, Ben? Working on my tan?” He shakes his head, his serious face returning. “When I couldn't be a teacher anymore, I became a student again. I've searched and I've studied and I've learned more than I ever thought was possible. I've spoken with the living and with the dead. There's so much more out there than any of us ever knew … so many ways to use the Force, to let the Force use us.”

 

Ben just sits there, wanting to take his uncle at his word for the first time in years, but the edges of his mind are still dark with doubt, and the Jedi must feel it.

 

“The galaxy is a big place, Ben,” Luke Skywalker says, his blue eyes bright with conviction, and he's still holding Ben's hand in both of his, which lends weight to his words, like he's making a promise. “You don't need to carve out a space for yourself by violence. You have a place. You always have, and you always will. There is more than enough room for someone just like you.”

 

Ben feels his scalp prickle, an electric feeling he can't explain, somewhere between excitement and terror, hinting at the long-forgotten feeling of joy. Luke squeezes his hand once and lets go, pulling back to his own side of the table, giving Ben some much-needed space to think.

 

“I want to know more,” Ben blurts, when he can speak again.

 

Luke smiles. “I know. You want rules to obey, a cause you can dedicate yourself to, something you lose yourself in. I can't give you any of that. But I'll be very happy to tell you what I've learned …” Luke pauses … “... another day.”

 

Ben glares at his uncle. “You think just because you're old now, you get to be mysterious?”

 

Luke's smile widens, with a swoop of mischief. “That's right.”

 

“Fine,” Ben says crossly, “have your fun.”

 

“Don't misunderstand, Ben,” Luke assures him, “if we had more time today, I would. I want you to know more, to know everything, and you will, in time. I have no intention of letting you down, or Rey down. Remember that.”

 

Ben drops his gaze to the surface of the table, his own pale hands gripping the edge of it with the tension he can almost never shake. Slowly, he relaxes, folding his arms on the table and leaning forward like a normal person. “I'll remember,” he mumbles.

 

“Try to get some rest, kid,” his father suggests, reaching over to nudge his shoulder. “You look like you could use it.”

 

But when Ben puts his head down on his arms and closes his eyes, he's still just dreaming wide awake.

 

\- - -

 

When the Falcon drops of out hyperspace and into the Ileenium system, Ben's heart drops too.

 

The unease that has lived inside of him about this whole trip now has a reason for existence, something solid to which it can attach itself and feed on, a cause which gives it strength and sets Ben teetering on the edge of fear. He has an impulse to reach out to his uncle, sitting nearest to him in the cockpit, but his hands don't move. He must have reached out with his mind, though, because Luke reaches back, sends him understanding.

 

“I know, Ben,” he says aloud, slight stress in the timbre of his voice.

 

“Hey.” Han leans over, frowning, looking from Ben to Luke. “What's the matter with you two?”

 

Rey and Chewie have turned around in their seats at the controls. “What's wrong?” Rey wants to know, her brow furrowed, her question tripping on the heels of Han's.

 

Ben's mouth is dry, his chest tight, panic beginning to flare hot and then die cold in his veins. But he manages, somehow, to choke out “She's not here.”

 

Chewie whines, and Rey's shoulders draw up sharp and tense, the worried look frozen on her – still grease-stained – face. Ben can't bring himself to look at any of them for too long, can't seem to drag his eyes away from that bright planet looming larger in the viewport, round but hollow, empty now of anything that matters to him.

 

_Where is she?_

 

_Where is my mother?_

 

“I don't … I don't get it,” Han mutters, thinking out loud, and Ben flinches at his father's voice. “Where else would she be?”

 

The silence that fills the Falcon's cabin is brief, but heavy. The closer D'Qar gets, the bigger Ben's fear gets, until he can't keep it contained in his body anymore. “Uncle Luke ...” he whispers.

 

Luke turns round in his seat and looks at Ben. His gaze is steady and firm, fixed, a tether to reality in the midst of nightmare fantasy.

 

“She's fine, Ben,” Luke says, his voice as strong and unyielding as his gaze. “Search your feelings. You would have known it by now if she wasn't; so would I. She's fine. She just isn't here, that's all.”

 

Ben nods, but it's a lie. How can he search his feelings when they're chaos?

 

“Hey,” Han Solo says a little weakly. “There must be a good reason, kid.”

 

“Of course there is,” Ben says flatly.

 

“You know it's true,” his uncle admonishes. “Listen to what we're saying, Ben. We're not saying it to make you feel better; we're saying it because it's the truth.”

 

Ben accepts the truth. His mother is fine, she's just elsewhere. Which means … he needs to be elsewhere too.

 

“Chewie,” Ben says, his voice just above a whisper now. There is a bad energy burning through him. “The Falcon … turn her around.”

 

Chewie's answering growl is pitched high with distress, warbling dissent as he shakes his head. Artoo beeps a low, tremulous note of foreboding.

 

Luke's eyes widen and he grows tense, half-standing from his seat as if he anticipates having to throw himself on Ben. Rey seems like a statue in the pilot's seat, still and stony, her hands frozen on the controls.

 

“Nuh-uh,” Han says, in a deeply stern voice. “No way. Don't even think about it, kid.”

 

All of those reactions, but it's his father he responds to. Rising from his seat, Ben whirls to glare at the ghost.

 

“I am _not_ going down there,” he says, his voice low and rough and strained, the words rending him on the way out. “If the others want to, that's their decision. This is mine. What is there for me down there? The Resistance? No thank you. I don't care to add myself to their sorry ranks. I'm not here for their cause. I'm here for my mother, but she's not here … so I'll go and find her.”

 

His father sighs, folding his arms across his chest and staring at Ben. “And who do think's gonna fly you there, kid?”

 

Ben feels a headache forming, beating inside his skull; his thoughts are getting bad again. Knowing that his father is right only adds to his desperation. None of the others are going to be on his side; they all have reasons for being there that have nothing to do with him.

 

_No one is coming to save you, Ben Solo …_

 

“I'll do it myself,” he threatens. The words are as feeble, as childish as he feels.

 

“Chewie,” Han Solo says calmly, without taking his eyes off his son, “don't let him anywhere near those controls. You should've seen what happened the last time he tried to fly.”

 

“This isn't _funny_ ,” Ben snarls, but he can't get enough savagery into the words, and they come out desperate, breathless.

 

“Who's laughing?” Han Solo demands, his voice sharp and angry now. “You're the one talking crazy, kid. Stop. Breathe. _Think._ The First Order is hunting you. They know you're aboard the Falcon. If you try and find your mom, guess what? All you'll do is lead them straight to her.”

 

Ben sucks in his breath sharply, and it breaks into painful fragments that lodge in his throat, stopping all further protests.

 

“This planet is the safest place for all of you right now,” Han continues. “It ain't forever. Just until the next fight, which by the way, none of you – except Chewie, probably – are ready for. No offense.”

 

“None taken,” Luke says dryly. Artoo whistles disagreement. Chewie groans, and Rey says nothing.

 

Ben has stopped, he has breathed, and … damn it, his father is right. It makes much more sense for him to wait here for his mother's return than it does for him to go rogue in a highly recognizable ship he can barely pilot, scouring the galaxy with the Force to find her while First Order ships try to gun him down and probably succeed … best case scenario. Worst case scenario? They find his mother too.

 

The scenario stalls there. Ben's mind won't play it out any further. He doesn't need to; he's already stumbling back from the mental edge he almost just toppled over. _Reckless, foolish, selfish and self-destructive …_ all those things he _is_ , all those things he doesn't want to be. But it's the look on Rey's face, when he looks at her, that finishes it, that crash-lands him back back where he needs to be.

 

She hasn't spoken to him, hasn't tried to argue with him, or shout at him, or tell him he's being an idiot. Ben senses that it's not for lack of wanting to; he can see all of it in her eyes, glossed with hurt, in her mouth quivering with betrayal. And of course, Ben knows why.

 

 _I'm not leaving you alone with this,_ he had told her. _I'm not going anywhere. We'll fight Snoke together, we'll kill him together …_

 

Of all the words he's ever said, Ben's not going to let those be a lie. He isn't going to abandon Rey to Snoke's nightmares and manipulations, no matter what it costs him in turn. There is a storm that's coming for both of them, a storm they have to face together, a destiny they're meant to share. So until they've faced that storm, until that destiny is done … he goes where she goes.

 

Ben doesn't say another word. He sits down, shuts up, and waits. Trying to trust his friends. His family. The Force.

 

Everyone relaxes as the danger of Ben's stupid impulse passes, but this makes him feel worse, not better, at having upset everyone. But this isn't just about him. He doesn't take his eyes off Rey.

 

 _Thank you,_ she thinks at him.

 

He shakes his head. _Don't thank me. I've done nothing to earn your gratitude._

 

“I'll argue with you later,” Rey says aloud, and Ben feels his face turn red. Rey gives him a saucy smile and switches gears, getting back to work, her nose scrunching in concentration, as she fiddles with the comm system, trying to get through to the planet below. There's a staticky burst of interference but it quickly gives way to the sound of voices.

 

“This is the Millennium Falcon,” Rey says too loudly, “requesting permission to land.”

 

There's a brief pause, followed by the sound of scuffling the background, the indistinguishable mutter of voices. It sounds like the comm has changed hands, and the interference is gone, replaced by a clear voice, a young man's voice, half-wild with joy and excitement. “Rey! Rey, is that you?”

 

Rey lights up so much that even the air around her seems to shimmer. “Finn! Finn! Yes, it's me ...”

 

“ … it's so good to hear your voice,” she says, as Finn says at the exact same time “... I'm so glad you're back ...”

 

And then they both laugh together: warm, companionable laughter.

 

Ben's never seen Rey or felt Rey so purely happy. For a moment it was like there was nothing wrong in the whole galaxy. And Ben should be happy because Rey is happy. But he can't be, because she bends with light that he can't touch, because of _Finn_. Ben feels monster thoughts rising, fanged shadows of bitterness and jealousy rearing up inside of him, drawing their strength from his weakness. His self-punishment is swift and harsh; he bites down on the inside of his cheek until he has drawn a trickle of blood, and keeps his mouth tightly closed so no one else can see. The dark-and-red feeling in his mind ebbs away in the wake of the physical pain, as he had hoped it would, but he knows it will come back. It just needs to be gone for now. He's made enough mistakes when it comes to the stormtrooper; this is no time to make another.

 

Chewie greets Finn loudly, with a happy roar.

 

“You too,” Finn replies with good cheer and apparently with no real idea what Chewie actually said. Rey's eyes sparkle with laughter, her mouth still curved with joy.

 

“We've brought you two, er, new recruits,” Rey is saying now. She's still smiling but her face is starting to flush, anxiety returning to complicate what should have been a purely triumphant occasion for her. Ben's fault, as usual.

 

“Would one of those happen to be named Luke Skywalker, by any chance?”

 

Luke smiles faintly, looking at the floor. “As a matter of fact, yes,” says Rey.

 

“So, um … who's the other?” Something about Finn's suddenly hesitant tone makes it seem like he knows.

 

Ben's teeth clench, threaded with the bitter taste of his own blood, and his body locks with anxiety from head to toe. Rey looks to him, meets his eyes, her own asking him a question but he doesn't know what the question is, much less the answer. So he just looks back at her, equally helpless.

 

Rey speaks slowly, carefully, as if there's any way she can put this that makes it less awkward and even painful. “It's … Han's son, actually.”

 

The comm transits a few moments of very heavy silence. Ben feels like he could shrink under the weight of it … and then it's broken by a gusty, crackling exhalation from Finn. “Okay. Um … yeah. Okay. General Organa said to be prepared for that. Guess I wasn't. Um, are you … is everything okay up there? Are you okay?”

 

Ben's jaw is clenched so tight it might just stick that way. His head hurts. Finn's totally sensible concern makes him so angry he longs for something to destroy. It's not fair, he knows that. For years, he has tried to make the whole world think the worst of him. He shouldn't be surprised that he succeeded.

 

“We're all fine,” Rey says serenely.

 

 _I'm not,_ Ben thinks.

 

Finn audibly sighs with relief. “Good! That's good. That's great, actually. All right then, Falcon, we're ready for you down here. Permission to land granted.”

 

“Roger that,” Rey replies, her smile returning like the dawn.

 

“And Rey?” Finn adds. “Welcome home.”

 

\- - -

 

They swoop down onto the landing pad and Ben feels like he's left his stomach somewhere in the upper atmosphere. He's rigid in his seat, a stranger in his body. This is wrong, all wrong, it's happening too fast, too much how can he bear this where is his _mother_ …

 

“Breathe, Ben,” Luke murmurs.

 

Ben breathes, though harshly, like a cornered beast. His knuckles are white as he clutches the seat, not because Rey and Chewie are bringing the Falcon in for anything but a smooth and graceful landing, but because he just needs to hold onto something. No matter how hard he or anyone else tries to convince himself otherwise, Ben can't shake the fear creeping its way up into the back of his throat, the sense of wrongness, the feeling that _I shouldn't be here I shouldn't be here I shouldn't be here…_

 

But whether that's true or not, here he is.

 

The Resistance base, as seen from the Falcon's viewport, is an even less inspiring sight than First Order intelligence claimed. There are few people, fewer ships, and the buildings and equipment seem rundown, the droids outdated. But for some reason, Ben isn't inclined to scoff right now. Not just because it means fewer witnesses to their arrival, but because it means that wherever Leia Organa has gone, she hasn't gone there alone.

 

With the ship landed, their goal reached, there is a moment when none of them are certain what to do. Even Rey, who had seemed so eager to arrive. Outside, the base is coming to life. A small crowd is forming around the landing pad, buzzing with excitement and agitation.

 

Ben looks at his uncle's face. Luke is tired, pensive, far from overjoyed. Maybe he doesn't have anything to be joyful about. It would be strange, Ben muses, to return to a world you'd left behind, a world that had relegated you to the shadowed status of a legend while you were still very much alive.

 

Sensing Ben's gaze, Luke turns and gives him a smile. But it's less a smile and more an acknowledgment, a bracing, a donning of armor. He looks like he's getting ready for a fight.

 

Ben would infinitely prefer a fight over whatever this is they're about to walk into … he knows better than to expect a warm welcome from the Resistance.

 

Han leans over Ben's seat and speaks quietly, close to his ear. “I think I'd better sit this one out, kid.”

 

“But ...” Ben starts to argue, but he has nothing to say. He half-turns, letting his eyes do the pleading. “Dad ...”

 

“Hey. You need your energy,” Han Solo tells him sternly. “You need to focus, and be smart, and you can't do that with me hanging over your shoulder. Don't worry ...” Han places his hand gently on the side of Ben's face, but it's the ghost of a touch just as he is the ghost of a man. Ben knows the truth of his father's words … it's exhausting to keep the ghost tangible in a time like this. “I'll be with you anyway,” his dad says, his eyes steady and serious.

 

Ben places his hand over his father's, clutching spectral fingers. For a moment, solidity and strength and warmth return.

 

“Okay,” he replies softly, and with a smile and a nod, Han Solo slips away and leaves Ben holding only air.

 

The first few seconds after the ghost is gone, Ben feels cold. He wants his cloak and his gloves but he can't remember where he put them. He can't remember a lot of things.

 

Rey's up now, hovering in the cockpit doorway, tilting towards the exit. She's practically bouncing up and down on her feet, and her eyes are shining bright with restless eagerness. Chewie chuckles.

 

“We … we should go,” she says, breathless as if she'd already taken off running. “Everyone's waiting ...”

 

“We're be along, Rey,” Luke tells her. “You don't have to wait for us.”

 

Rey's wide eyes sweep over Luke and Ben. “Are you sure?”

 

“Go,” Luke says, laughter in his voice, and she starts to.

 

“Wait.”

 

Rey turns back at the sound of Ben's voice, worry creeping at the corners of her eyes, but he doesn't give her time to fear that he's going to stop her. Instead, he goes over to Rey – nearly tripping over an indignant Artoo in the process – takes the edge of his sleeve, and uses it to rub away the smudge of engine grease on her nose and cheek until only a faint grubby sheen is left. Ben lets his hand fall to his side. “There,” he grumbles. “Now you can go.”

 

Rey looks up him, bemused … then she flashes a quick, luminescent smile and off like a blaster bolt, riding her excitement like a wave. It hurts to feel her joy and yet be unable to share it. She must be able to feel all his misgivings too, but she's surely doing an excellent job of disregarding them if she is … and why shouldn't she? This is her place. She's found a place and people to call her own at last, after a lifetime of agony and waiting. Surely he's not petty enough to begrudge her that, just because it can't be his place too.

 

 _Oh, who are you kidding, Ben?_ He hates this. It feels like the ground itself is carrying Rey away from him, like it did on Starkiller when the chasm opened up between them, and there's nothing he can do about it. For all that she doesn't want him to leave her alone, she doesn't seem to have much a problem with leaving him, just like his mother and father had left him when they didn't know what to do with him anymore, when he became a problem they couldn't handle and didn't care to deal with anymore …

 

“Well,” Luke says, his calm voice cutting off Ben's dark thoughts. “Let's go, everyone. We've already been away too long.”

 

\- - -

 

When Ben steps out of the Falcon and into the sunlight, it momentarily blinds him, and he regains his vision just in time to see Rey go flying into FN-2187's arms.

 

The ex-stormtrooper only winces a little when Rey throws her arms him, and he recovers instantly, catches Rey, spins her in a circle. They're both smiling, laughing, dizzy and stumbling and almost falling over, which only makes them laugh more, like idiots. When FN- … Finn ... sets Rey down, they still hold onto each other's arms, breathless and beaming, looking only at each other.

 

Ben doesn't realize that he's halted until Chewie nudges his back, rumbling a quiet encouragement. Ben's feet start moving again, but more slowly; he trails Luke down the ramp and tries not to look at anyone, not to think of anything, not to feel anything. He has no more success with that than he ever has. Reaching the ground, he can hear the two of them talking animatedly, hear the smiles in their voices. And of course he can't resist listening in, nor can he stop himself from staring.

 

“Not to brag or anything,” Finn is saying, his grin growing sheepish, “but you're looking at a newly promoted officer here. I'm a captain.”

 

“Finn! That's wonderful!” Rey, still holding onto Finn's hands, fairly jumps with excitement. “ _Captain_  Finn, I mean.”

 

“Thanks, Rey,” Finn says, ducking his head modestly. “I'm not sure I deserve it, but ...”

 

“Of course you do!”

 

“So,” Luke Skywalker says, stepping forward and extending a hand to the younger man. “You're Finn. I've heard a lot about you; it's an honor to finally make your acquaintance.”

 

The awestruck look on Finn's face as the Jedi shakes his hand is priceless. Ben wishes he could appreciate it.

 

“L-Likewise, Master Skywalker … um, Sir Luke …. Your Jediness ...”

 

“You can call me Luke,” Luke says, his mustache twitching.

 

Finn, dazzled, turns to Rey. “Did you hear that? I can call him Luke.”

 

Rey giggles. “I heard.”

 

With a happy cry, Chewie surges forward and embraces Finn tightly, lifting him off the ground. Both Finn and Rey wince. “I have no idea what you just said, Chewbacca,” Finn creaks out, his voice muffled in the Wookiee's fur, “but thank you for saving my life.”

 

Chewie sets Finn back down, straightens his stupid brown jacket, pats the top of his head, and croons.

 

“He says you're welcome,” Rey supplies helpfully.

 

Chewie steps back and Finn's eyes find Ben's, and a darkness blooms between them. For a long unpleasant moment, all the others seem to vanish, to fade away like wisps of smoke. They all might as well be trees, and the ground under their feet and the air around them might as well be filled with drifts of snow and drops of blood and the smell of burning flesh.

 

“You,” Finn says, his eyes dark and narrow.

 

“You,” Ben murmurs, his cheeks burning hot.

 

Rey looks from one of them to the other; Ben can feel the weight of her worry. Does she expect him to just lash out, like a wild animal?

 

 _You mean like you did last time?_ Well, this isn't like last time. He has to remember that, he has to. He doesn't have to like Finn, anymore than Finn has to like him – _ha, ha_ – but they are now, technically, on the same side. There's no reason for them to fight. Not each other.

 

“You're looking well,” Ben hears himself say, for the sake of saying something. He doesn't mean to, exactly, but he sounds surly about it.

 

“No thanks to you,” Finn replies. Quicker with his wit than Ben would have expected. He feels his lips pulling back from his teeth, an aggressive facsimile of a smile.

 

Before Ben can respond, the small crowd parts and Admiral Ackbar steps to the fore. Ben stands straighter, squaring his shoulders, bracing himself. The imposing, dignified Mon Calamari has no reason to be happy to see Ben Solo, who was a menace to his mother's colleagues long before he was Snoke's monster. And indeed, the admiral is not happy, regarding Ben with a gimlet eye.

 

“Surrender your weapons and we will take you into custody.”

 

This was to be expected. He should probably count himself lucky that they didn't start shooting at him the second he stepped off the Falcon, but he's not in the mood to feel lucky, and the order to give up his weapons that makes Ben's hackles rise. But he grits his teeth and reminds himself that if the worst came to the worst, he doesn't need a weapon to destroy anyone who tries to destroy him. The Force is with him … no one, neither the Resistance nor the First Order, can take that away.

 

Finn is the closest Resistance officer to Ben at the moment, and the Admiral indicates, with a nod of his bulbous head, that he should take custody of Ben's weapons. _Like this day couldn't get any worse,_ Ben thinks semi-hysterically. If Finn is nervous about the close proximity to Kylo Ren, he doesn't show it. He just steps forward, tight-jawed and alert, to do his duty.

 

The blaster is easier for Ben to sacrifice. He hands it over to Finn without a word of protest or a gesture of hesitation. His lightsaber, though … Ben's grip tightens on the hilt, his hand starting to shake, conflict stirred up inside of him. It's bad enough in the first place to be making himself vulnerable to these people who don't know him, don't trust him and who he doesn't trust either. To have to give up the weapon that has been his constant companion for half his life? He'd rather ignite it and take his chances …

 

 _Don't be stupid, kid,_ he hears his father say.

 

Finn's eyes narrow and he holds the confiscated blaster as if he might have to use it: a visible warning, a sensible caution. With a flush of furious shame, Ben remembers that this man knows all too well what happened the last time he was meant to give up this lightsaber: how quickly and terribly and irrevocably he had changed his mind. The urge to prove Finn wrong is suddenly of paramount importance, not because of the blaster, which Ben doesn't fear, but because of the judgment on his face. But still, he hesitates, just for a moment, looking for some indication, some suggestion, a hint of hope that he will ever see his saber again.

 

To Ben's surprise, it's Rey who gives him this confirmation, with a barely perceptible nod of her head, a glint in her eye. Or maybe it's not confirmation at all … maybe it's just encouragement, telling him it's going to be okay. Hell, maybe it's permission: permission to be weak, that no one is going to take advantage of him here. Whatever it is, it's exactly what Ben needed. His fingers loosen and the traitor has his lightsaber. Again. He holds it delicately, like it's an angry living thing, like it might ignite on its own and burn its way through him …. without its master's bidding, this time. But it doesn't and the moment of tension passes and Ben takes a breath and thinks _that wasn't so bad, was it?_

 

But then Finn pulls a set of energy binders from the back of his belt, and Ben balks, taking a half-step backward and nearly colliding with Chewie in the process. Finn darts a look at Admiral Ackbar.

 

“Your mother left instructions regarding your incarceration,” the Admiral says … not loudly, but he might as well have roared. Ben feels like he's been struck hard enough to set him reeling.

 

Breathlessly, he demands, “Where is she?” He feels like he used to on the first day of school, and he's having the exact same thought, over and over again … _I want my mother I want my mother I want my mother ..._ But she isn't there. No matter how many times this scenario unfolded inside his head, Leia Organa was always there, and whether she kissed him or slapped him or cried his name or cursed it, she was always there. For her to not be there … all the hope and dread he's felt for months at the thought of seeing her again … there's a gnawing feeling, an empty place in him, and he's at a loss.

 

“That information is classified,” Admiral Ackbar replies sharply, staring Ben down with one enormous eye.

 

_It doesn't have to stay classified. I can take it; I can rip it from him and every other secret the Resistance has, if I want to …_

 

But he doesn't want to, or at least he shouldn't want to, he knows that. But she _left_. She left knowing that he was on his way to her, and she left “instructions for his incarceration” and there has to be a good reason for it, a sound reason, there must be, but it feels like a betrayal, so much like one, and …

… Ben is scared.

 

Ackbar signals and two bulky soldiers step up to flank Finn, who holds the binders at the ready while the other move to grab hold of Ben's arms. Chewie growls, and no one moves except Ben, who can't stop himself from flinching back. He doesn't know what he will do next, and he doesn't find out, because Rey steps into the space he's left, putting herself between Ben and Finn and the others.

 

“Stop,” she snaps out.

 

Finn looks startled, his mouth falling open a little He stares at Rey, while the others look to Admiral Ackbar for orders. Before he can give any, Rey continues.

 

“If he's anyone's prisoner, he's mine,” she says, loud and clear … and clearly angry. “He surrendered himself to me.”

 

Ben remembers it, that day on Dagobah, the rain in his eyes and the blood in his mouth, the storm raging around him and Rey, the roar of the wind and the moment when it all went quiet. How terrified he'd felt, how weak and low and small, kneeling there in the mud at her feet. Waiting to live or die at her whim. He hadn't know if he could trust her, but he'd chosen to do so anyway, and it had turned out to be one of the very few good decisions he'd made in his life. Now, he'd have that fight back in a heartbeat. Wishes he could go back into those horrifyingly intimate moments of forgiveness, live in them, never leave them. At least he hadn't been a prisoner then … at least the future hadn't yet closed around him like durasteel bars.

 

“General Organa's words to me were clear,” Admiral Ackbar tells Rey sternly. “She gave me orders to use any necessary precautions in the containment of this … individual. Those orders stand.”

 

The burst of anger that Rey experiences at this is brief but powerful. Before she can put it to use, Luke Skywalker quickly steps forward to stand beside her, his brown robe sweeping rather dramatically out behind him.

 

“Admiral,” he says, quietly, in the kind of voice that makes others hush to listen. “She did say 'necessary' precautions?”

 

“Those were her exact words,” Ackbar confirms, a little of the edge leaving his voice, as if the sight of Luke has softened him.

 

“Then I suggest that the binders aren't necessary,” Luke says. “My nephew has handed over his weapons willingly. He's come here in peace, of his own accord. You will have his full cooperation in the fight against the First Order, I assure you.”

 

Ackbar and Skywalker look at each other for a long time, past years of comradeship and trust being weighed against Luke's vanishing, and all of the things that have happened since Luke vanished … but eventually, the old feelings win.

 

“You will vouch for him, then?” the Admiral asks, blinking.

 

“With my life, sir,” says Luke Skywalker, placing his hand on Ben's shoulder.

 

 _Oh._ That pretty much eliminates whatever options Ben had of ruining this. He's stuck with this path now, pinned in place by his uncle's faith in him, a faith he wants to be worthy of, just as he wants to be worthy of Rey's fierce protectiveness. But he will never be worthy, and he's trapped.

 

 _No,_ he tells himself, a voice of reason shouting to be heard through the other noises. _You're not stuck. You're not pinned. You're deciding to do this. This is_ _ **your**_ _choice._

 

Suddenly, breathing feels a lot easier. And Admiral Ackbar's agreement seems to have put everyone else at ease too.

 

“You understand, I'm sure,” Ackbar says, addressing Ben once more, his words clipped, “that we still must confine you.”

 

Ben ducks his head, sort of in a nod and sort of to hide his face. He doesn't want – can't bear for any of these people – to know how much the notion of captivity, and the impending reality of it frighten him.

 

But Rey understands. Without him having to say a word, she understands, and the frustration, the anger, the worry that she feels on his behalf are not doing anyone any favors. Before she can say anything else Ben draws a quick breath and straightens up, meeting Ackbar's look head-on.

 

“Yes, Admiral,” he says, softly. “I understand. I didn't come here to make trouble.”

 

Admiral Ackbar looks like he's thinking that that would be a first. But the old warrior is an idealist at heart. He wants to have hope, he wants to believe, and he very much wants to wash his hands of Ben Solo, so just nods in return and says “Good.” Then he looks over at Finn. “Captain.”

 

Finn finally tears his eyes from Rey. “Yes, sir?”

 

“Take as many men as you see fit and show the … new recruit … to his quarters.”

 

Finn's shoulders slump ever so slightly. “Yes, sir.”

 

The thought of being flanked by guards makes Ben edgy; he didn't like it even when the guards were under his command, and it makes him even more edgy now. But there's nothing he can do at this point but cooperate; he has decided to cooperate. It's what his mother wants …

 

 _Why does it matter what she wants?_ the meanest part of him thinks. _She obviously doesn't really want to see you, otherwise she would have stayed here, but she left instead. Nothing's changed and nothing ever will; there's still something that's more important to her than you, something will always be more important to her than you …_

 

 _Shut up,_ Ben hisses back at the voice in his head, only because he cannot bear what it is saying.

 

“If Captain Finn will lead the way,” Luke says, his voice calm and steady, designed to put others at ease, “then I'm certain Chewbacca and I will be able to see Ben safely there.”

 

Chewbacca gives a short grunt of agreement; he's grumpy about this entire situation.

 

“Me too,” Rey says staunchly.

 

“Very well,” Admiral Ackbar says. Apparently, being Luke Skywalker still carries a lot of weight around here.

 

Ben looks around for Artoo, but the little droid seems to have disappeared, and then the little crowd is breaking up and their group is moving, Finn in the lead, heading through the base, leaving the Falcon behind.

 

Perhaps it's not fair to think of them by the same standards, but Ben can't help noticing that compared to the sleek new designs of First Order ships and cold, pristine darkness of the bases he has seen, the Resistance looks sloppy and shabby. A lot like the Rebel Alliance must have looked. Ben keeps looking at their surroundings to avoid looking at the back of Finn's jacket, at the burned edges that have been stapled back together.

 

The building into which Finn leads them looks fairly sturdy. It's cool and dimly inside, and not particularly clean. Their progress takes them down several flights of stairs, and there are cams on every landing that swivel and watch them as they pass. Ben doesn't have to be a genius to know that this is where the Resistance keeps its prisoners … but if the echo of their footfalls, the carrying of a single cough, is any indication, right now he is the only one.

 

Finally, it seems they've hit the lowest level. Finn punches in a code on a keypad and a set of battered blast doors open, admitting them to a short, windowless hallway. At the end of it is another set of doors and just beyond that is a transparisteel wall with one more door in it. All of them have their own codes, and the room beyond the transparisteel contains only a rickety cot, a tiny metal table, and a security cam in the upper corner, like a red eye staring down.

 

“Here we are,” says Finn.

 

Ben turns to face the others, not certain what to say; all he knows is that he doesn't really want to walk into that room and be closed behind those doors without knowing when he'll get out, when he'll see any of them again …

 

“I'll stay with you,” Luke offers.

 

“No, you won't,” Ben tells him, trying to make a joke out of it. “There's barely room in there for me.”

 

“True.” Luke chuckles slightly. “But Ben, if you need anything ...”

 

“I'll be fine, Uncle Luke.”

 

Chewie groans and flings his arms around Ben, squeezing him too tightly and yelling in his ear about how he doesn't want to leave him here …

 

“Argh, Chewie,” Ben grumbles, clinging to Chewie for just a few moments before struggling out of the Wookiee's grip. “Don't worry about me. Someone has to take care of the Falcon.”

 

Chewie wails agreement and rumples Ben's hair and steps back reluctantly to stand beside Luke.

 

Ben doesn't look at Finn. Or Rey. He doesn't want to watch either of them watch him get locked up, so, with one moment of resolve, he turns and stalks through the door, putting himself in his own prison cell, not turning around until the door has whooshed close and locked behind him.

 

Chewie whimpers, and Luke sighs.

 

“This is weird,” Finn mutters under his breath, looking at the floor.

 

“I guess we should go back up and join the party.” Luke's voice is a little caustic, but he means what he says.

 

“I'm going to stay a little bit longer,” Rey says quietly, looking at Ben solemnly through the glass.

 

“You don't have t- ...” Ben starts to say, but gives up. “Fine.”

 

When Luke and Chewie have gone, Rey sighs unhappily, and Finn turns to face her.

 

“I can see in your eyes you've got something to say, Rey. So say it.”

 

“Do I really have to?” Rey bristles with indignation. “Finn, these aren't quarters. This is a cage.”

 

“It was the General's orders,” Finn says, a little defensive. “His _mom's_ orders.”

 

“It just … doesn't feel right.”

 

“It's for his safety as much as anyone's,” Finn reasons. “There are plenty of people in the Resistance who'd be more than happy to see him dead.”

 

“Like you?” Ben says, his voice sour with sarcasm. Finn looks up sharply, meets his eyes with surprise and a bit of anger at the challenge. But he doesn't take the bait.

 

“Ben, stop it,” Rey interjects, crackling with a low voltage of anger. “Finn's trying to help, and he doesn't have to.”

 

“Don't worry about it, Rey.” Finn fixes Ben with a glare. “I'm not doing it for him.”

 

Rey meets Finn's eyes and gives him a slight, understanding smile. “Can I have a moment with the prisoner? It won't take long, I promise.”

 

“Well ...” Finn is plainly torn, but his eyes flick over the security cam, the locked door, the thick layer of transparisteel, and of course, the lightsaber on Rey's hip. “Okay. Sure. I'll wait for you outside.”

 

As Finn passes her, she briefly touches his arm. “Thank you, Captain Finn.”

 

Finn grins, and turns to go, but when he reaches the last set of door, he pauses, looks back over his shoulder, and meets Ben's eyes. “Oh, hell. I can't help myself. I've gotta say it. Welcome to the Resistance … traitor.”

 

And then he leaves, the doors sliding closed behind him before Ben can recover from the insult.

 

 _He thinks these doors will protect him from me? If really I wanted to get out of here,_ Ben thinks with savagery and petulance, _I could. Surely he must know that. Surely they must all know that, my mother too._

 

He could break out, but it would not help. There is nowhere for him to go and nothing for him to do but wait for his next set of orders … the way he has for years. He tries to tell himself, tries to get himself to believe it's not the same, that things are different now, and this is temporary …

 

Rey is glaring at Ben through the glass. “Why did you say that? Why did you lash out like that?”

 

“It's what I do,” Ben replies sullenly.

 

“Not to Finn,” Rey says, her voice strong and sharp. “Not now, not ever again. Do you hear me?”

 

He hears her very well, and her disappointment stings him, shames him. Ben ducks his head. _Careful,_ the mean part of him thinks. _She's already forgiven you too much. Mess up again where Finn's concerned, and she might just see you for what you really are and choose him over you._

 

It's nothing he hasn't thought before, in the darker depths of his mind, but he was always able to shove that open wound of a thought aside, because it was in the future. But now he has to face it, because he's had to face Finn, and the other man isn't going to go away.

 

 _But neither am I,_ Ben thinks. _Neither am I._

 

“I know you're scared,” Rey goes on, her voice softening slightly now as it lowers in confidence, the sharp edges roughed with sympathy. “I know you're upset. But you don't get to take it out on other people, Ben.”

 

He growls. “I'm not scared.”

 

Rey sighs and folds her arms tighter, cocks her head as she looks at him. “Really? You're going to try and lie to _me_? Just because there's glass between us doesn't stop me knowing what's in your heart.”

 

Ben closes his eyes, takes a moment steady his breathing. Some of the bitterness begins to drain away, too weak to sustain itself in the face of her stubborn care. “Right,” he admits. “You're right. Happy?”

 

Rey ignores this and presses on. “You're worried about your mother.”

 

Ben nods, unable to speak.

 

“It's going to be all right, you'll see. I'm sure everything will be better when she gets back.” Rey steps closer to the glass as she speaks, and places her hand on the glass, fingers splayed. “Once she's back, you'll be able to get out of here.”

 

Unable to resist the invitation, Ben rests his hand on the other side of the glass from Rey's. But he can't feel the rough, friendly warmth of her hand; all he can feel is the cold glass: blank, unforgiving, nothing to hold onto.

 

“Maybe this is where I belong,” he murmurs.

 

“Don't say that!” Rey exclaims. “You know where you belong, Ben, and it isn't in a cage.”

 

Ben feels a small and mirthless smile twist his mouth. “Don't they usually keep monsters in cages?”

 

“That's not funny,” Rey snaps.

 

“If you don't find me sufficiently amusing,” Ben retorts, “then I'm sure there are other people in this duracrete hellscape who would be more than happy to entertain you.”

 

Rey's frown deepens, but she's not just irritated now, she's sad. “Ben ...”

 

“Go on, Rey,” Ben says, too tired and discouraged to even be bitter anymore. “Go back to your friends. Don't worry about me.”

 

“But you're my friend, too,” she tells him, with such heartbreaking honesty that he has to catch his breath.

 

 _For how much longer?_ Ben wonders. Now that she has her precious Finn back, and Luke Skywalker as well, what does she really need _him_ for?

 

But for now, if she wants to keep thinking that, he isn't going to argue with her. His fingers twitch against the glass and Rey's follow his movements, although her eyes have never left his face.

 

“What are you going to tell him?” Ben asks. He shouldn't have asked, but it's the same impulse that makes him hurt himself, and he's too tired to fight it.

 

“Finn? I'm going to tell him everything. Everything he needs to understand.”

 

“What if he doesn't?”

 

“He will.” She speaks with a faith of a child, a faith that has never been tested. For her sake … Ben hopes that Finn will pass the test. He doesn't want her to be let down by the people she loves.

 

“I wish I didn't have to leave you like this ...” Rey is saying now, her eyes downcast, her voice a mumble.

 

“Like what?”

 

She blinks up at him and he thinks he sees a hint of sadness in her eyes, or maybe it's just a reflection off the glass. “Alone.”

 

Ben's throat aches when he speaks again, but he's able to smile. “It's all right. I'm never alone, not really.”

 

Rey smiles too, remembering. “Of course.” For a moment, all is quiet.

 

“I'll be back later to see you,” she tells him, soft and reassuring. “I'll come back, Ben. I promise.”

 

And he believes her. “I know,” he murmurs.

 

Rey smiles, and turns away, her hand falling to her side as she goes.

 

Ben stands by the window, his hand still pressed to the glass, long after Rey is gone.

 

\- - -

 

“We've been in worse places than this, kid,” his father reminds him.

 

It can't have even been an hour since the Resistance locked him away, and already Ben is sick of it. He hadn't meant to summon any spirits so soon, but all he had to do was think of Han Solo and there he was, sitting on the end of the flimsy cot. Now, they're sitting there together, backs to the wall, mostly quiet. But his dad always feels the need to break the silence.

 

Not in the mood to be agreeable, Ben grumbles “Name one.”

 

“Dagobah?” Han suggests.

 

Ben snorts and leans his head back against the wall, trying very hard to ignore the blinking red light of the security cam. “I'd take a swamp over a cell any day, Dad.”

 

“Chin up, kid,” his dad tells him, poking Ben's chin for emphasis. “You're not gonna be in here forever. It's like Finn said, it's a precaution. Soon as your mom gets back ...”

 

“I don't want to talk about my mother,” Ben says shortly, stubbornly.

 

Han frowns. “Then what do you wanna talk about?”

 

“Places that are worse than this.”

 

His dad laughs, eyes crinkled at the corners. “It's a big galaxy, Ben. There's a lot worse places than this. Snoke's audience chamber, for instance.”

 

Ben winces. “That was pretty bad.” Even now he can feel it; the bone-deep cold of it. The still, dead air. The way every sound echoed, foolish words hanging broken in the air long after they'd been spoken, sounding weaker and weaker as they faded away. The memory is viscerally unpleasant and he doesn't want to relive it but at least it's only a memory. And in the end … he has to concede the point to his dad. He is better off here than there.

 

“We've come a long way, you and me,” Han Solo says, nudging his son's arm with his own.

 

“Yeah,” Ben agrees, quiet. He slumps and lets his head rest on his dad's shoulder for a moment.

_But I still have so much farther to go._

 

The outer doors of the cell whoosh open, and Ben is instantly alert, poised to spring to his feet, ready to fight if he has to. But the familiar trill of an astromech droid calms him, and Artoo-Detoo trundles through the second set of doors, followed by a golden droid holding a tray of something that vaguely resembles food.

 

“Why, bless my circuits!” See-Threepio exclaims, nearly tripping over Artoo in his excitement. “Master Ben! It really is you!”

 

Han groans and rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. “There goes the neighborhood.”

 

“Returned at last,” Threepio is saying now, awkwardly skirting Artoo to place the tray on the table next to the cot. “Oh, thank the Maker ... but here I am rattling on when you probably don't even recognize me ...”

 

“Of course I recognize you, Threepio,” Ben says. As a child he'd taken the protocol droid apart and put him back together more times than he could count. He stands up, and though it makes no sense at all to hug a droid, that's what he has the impulse to do and so he does it. “Don't be stupid.”

 

“Goodness,” Threepio says, almost bashful, when Ben releases him. “Still so human.”

 

Ben feels a laugh rising in his throat. “Well, Threepio, nobody's perfect.”

 

“Quite so, Master Ben, quite so. I was given instructions to greet you, but I was switched off when you arrived, and until Artoo came to find me, it seems that no one saw fit to switch me back on! Can you imagine?”

 

Ben fights a small smile while his father coughs in the background. “Sorry to hear that, Threepio. But you're here now.”

 

“Indeed I am,” Threepio says importantly. “It is my duty and my pleasure, of course. The princess, that is, the general, that is, your mother ... thought that it would be good for you to see a familiar face, when you arrived."

 

 _Sure she did,_ Ben thinks, his smile fading, his heart twisting. _Just not hers._ His chest knots up and so do his hands, and he sneaks a glance over his shoulder at his father (who Threepio remains blissfully unaware of). Han Solo raises an eyebrow, and Ben releases his tightly held breath and loosens his fists.

 

_It's okay. It's going to be okay._

 

“So, this is what passes for food around here,” he muses, picking up a chunk of bread from the tray Threepio brought. It's positively arid, and when he bites down on it he starts coughing on the crumbs.

 

“Oh dear,” Threepio frets. “Do drink some water, Master Ben.”

 

Red-faced, Ben does so – ignoring his dad's silent snickers and Artoo's amused whirring – and turns his attention to the rest of the tray's contents. He'd been too anxious to eat before leaving the Falcon, his stomach all tied and tangled up. Now the food – such as it is – at least occupies him enough to keep him from obsessing over his fate. Still, though, when he's washed down the dry crumbly bread and the gluey beans and tough strings of dried meat, he can't help but ask.

 

“Threepio, my mother … why, I mean ... where did she go?”

 

He feels like a small child when he asks it, but then, Threepio is pretty much treating him the same as he did in his childhood. It's oddly comforting.

 

“I'm afraid that the princess did not see fit to entrust me with that information,” Threepio says in a miffed tone. “I understand that the mission is of the utmost secrecy and importance. However, she did record a message for you, before she left! I have given the tape to Artoo-Detoo, if he would be so kind ...”

 

Artoo whistles a merry tune and then, before Ben even has time to prepare himself, his mother – or rather, the image of her – is in the cell with him.

 

The image is blue and crackly and not life-size, but it still gives him a shock, and he freezes in place at the illusion that his mother's eyes are looking into his. The holo-image smiles and starts to speak and at first he doesn't really hear what's she saying because he's too busy staring, taking in what details he can glean from the image: the hair piled on her head, the faint lines beneath her eyes, the broken-in boots on her feet.

 

_Mom._

 

“Can you ...” he coughs, and starts over. “Artoo, can you start the message over, please?”

 

Artoo complies and this time Ben sits close to his father and listens.

 

“Ben,” Leia Organa says, her voice lower than he remembers it, her face serious. “I hope that you don't have to listen to this. I want to be there to see you in person. But if you are listening, that means I've had to leave. I'm sorry, and I hope you understand that I wouldn't have gone if there had been any other choice. I hope you understand how much I want to see you again, and how proud I am of you, for making it this far.” The image wavers slightly as his mother smiles, then resolves itself. “As soon as my mission is completed, I'll be back, and it will be soon. I've tried to arrange for circumstances that will protect you while I'm gone, and put the rest of the base at ease. It hasn't been an easy compromise, and it won't be easy for you, either. But it won't be for long. Just hold on, Ben. Just hold on a little bit longer ...” She pauses, composes herself, and goes on. “I'll see you soon, sweetheart. And I love you. Always.” One last smile, and the holo-image crackles and vanishes, and the message is over.

 

Ben's cheeks are wet and stinging with tears; he raises his sleeve to wipe them away and remembers, too late, about the engine grease.

 

Han Solo gives him a smile that is simultaneously fond and smug. His eyes are suspiciously shiny. “See, kid?” His voice is thick. “Told you it was fine.”

 

Ben grimaces at his dad. Fine isn't the word he would use to describe this situation, but it's more accurate now than it would have been a few minutes ago. It feels like one of those many fault lines inside of him is slowly starting to pull itself back together, and it hurts a little, but not as badly as it did before.

 

 _She'll see me soon. She loves me._ _She's_ _ **proud**_ _of me._

 

“Oh dear,” Threepio says anxiously, “Master Ben, are you all right?”

 

Ben takes the edge of the thin blanket and uses it to dry up the tear stains. “Fine, Threepio.” He takes an unsteady breath, and then another. “Artoo? Would you play the message again?”

 

And Artoo does.

.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE
> 
> in all seriousness, i really hate that it took SO long for this chapter to get done. and i really don't want it to take so long again. i love working on this story and i love sharing it and yeah 
> 
> i IMPLORE y'all to tell me your thoughts/reactions/feedback/etc because it means so much to me to know what you think. checking my inbox and crying over comments was part of what finally helped me get my shit together and finish this chapter. 
> 
> (the other part of it was gifs of Kylo looking like a sad puppy. GOD).


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captivity does not agree with Ben.

Captivity does not agree with Ben.

 

That's the point of it, of course. It's not meant to be an agreeable experience. But knowing this doesn't make it all that much easier to bear. Having come this far, this fast, feeling something close to happy for the first time in so many years … meeting with yet another obstacle, yet another set of walls, feels like a solid kick to the gut, a shock to his system. It makes Ben cringe at himself, that having known a hint of comfort, he's already become so accustomed to it that a little bit of hardship affects him so much. It smacks too much of what Snoke had always hissed at him: that sentiment is poison and compassion is weakness, that love and friendship kill strength and leave sluggish softness in their place.

 

 _I'm not weak,_ Ben tells himself, throwing the words like a chant into the hollow place in the back of his mind where the voice has always waited. _I'm not weak. I'm not._

 

There is never a confirmation, or a denial. Only echoing silence.

 

Sleep helps. Ben spends as much time of his sleeping as he possibly can, until his body and his mind both say _enough_ and join forces to keep him lying awake. At these times, he keeps his eyes stubbornly closed, trying to shut out his surroundings and failing, able to feel and sense the restless, tantalizing energy on the surface, but unable to be a part of it, unable to be a part of anything but his own incarceration. Idleness does not sit well with him and he does not sit well with it, but as a prisoner he's deprived of anything that could serve as an outlet. The pressure that emanates from inside of him, the core of his being yelling at him to _DO SOMETHING_ is not lessening. Instead it's getting worse, especially in the moments when he's alone, with no one living or dead to watch him begin to unravel, the thin metal frame of the cot quaking against the duracrete floor, the canteen of water rattling on the table, the air around him shifting and eddying in increasingly rapid currents that have nothing to do with the cracks in the seeping walls. And Ben is not in control in these moments, but fortunately they don't last long … and there is something in the reminder of what he's capable of that makes the rattling and shaking stop, that loosens the tangled knots in his chest, letting him breathe again, move again.

 

The meager space in the cell doesn't afford anyone – much less him – much room for exercise, but he has to try. When nothing else will serve, Ben stands up and paces the floor, back and forth, back and forth, from one wall to the other and back again. Sometimes, to shake things up, he switches directions or walks the walls of the cell in their tight square, cutting out a little section around his cot. While he paces, he lets his mind wander, a sort of reverse meditation in which he focuses on nothing at all, and thinks of many things with detachment. Sometimes this helps, but at other times it feels like a bad joke. How is pacing, even hours of it, or push-ups, even two hundred in a row, supposed to keep him from losing his mind in this cage?

 

That's what Rey had called it, and that is what it feels like. In here, he doesn't feel like Ben and he doesn't feel like Kylo Ren either; instead he feels like some exotic species of animal from an obscure world, taken from where he was meant to be and thrown on display for gawking strangers who sometimes throw him scraps. _Not a perfect comparison,_ he has to admit with a private smirk, _since those creatures are looked at with admiration, and no one here would find anything admirable about me._

 

There are moments when he manages to forget the cam. Sometimes. Most of the time, he is so aware of it that it makes his very skin crawl. Ben loathes the security cam glaring down on him, with a personal hatred he's never felt for a piece of technology before. Up on the bright surface of this pretty planet, some unfortunate Resistance drone is _watching_ Ben all the time. Watching him sleep, or fail at sleeping. Watching him pace. Watching him eat. Watching him meditate, or trying to meditate. Watching him talk to dead people. Watching him watch his mother's message for the dozenth time. Watching him turn his face sharply toward the opposite wall, because he will be damned if he lets them watch him cry.

 

At least no one tries to talk to him about what they see. The Resistance doesn't seem to know what to do with him, so they mostly ignore him. He suspects they want to question him but are under orders not to, until his mother returns. An hour or so after Ben was locked up, Luke came down with Dr. Kalonia, a med-droid, and a couple of guards (who stood in the corridor, out of view, with their hands on their blasters) so that Ben could be subjected to a medical examination. Apparently this was mandatory. Ben hadn't wanted to submit to it, and only agreed under his uncle's steady gaze and the condition that the droid be the one to take his readings. The list of organic beings that Ben will allow to touch him isn't a long one, and he's not going to add Dr. Kalonia to it, though she doesn't seem that bad. She had simply her eyebrows slightly and agreed, no nonsense. Ben thinks that the doctor's mind must be a clean, clear place, neatly organized and brightly lit, without shadowy corners for anything hateful to hide in. Her voice is dry but not unkind when she tells Ben that he's sleep-deprived and vitamin-deficient and undernourished – which is nothing he didn't already know – and vitamins and nutrition supplements are added to his daily rations. He is tempted to ask if the Resistance is so concerned with the health of all their prisoners, but something about Dr. Kalonia's straightforward manner makes him bite his tongue and just say thank you.

 

So far, the Resistance rations are just as dry and tasteless as First Order rations … _or maybe,_ he thinks sourly, _it's just that they're giving me the worst food they can find._ After that occurs to him, he tries to stop eating out of spite, but the ghosts insist, until he concedes just to shut them up.

 

“You have spent most of your life in a prison, Ben,” Obi-Wan Kenobi points out, his ghostly blue eyes keen, “of one form or another. Yet it disturbs you now, when you've chosen it?”

 

Ben grimaces at the ghost, and quickly gulps down a horrible mouthful of protein paste. “Don't you have anything better to do, old man?”

 

“Be nice,” his father admonishes half-heartedly, but Obi-Wan only chuckles and slowly fades away. Presumably he _does_ have something better to do, and it irritates Ben to no end that even the dead have more freedom than he does right now. And what troubles him even more is that Obi-Wan's right. He can't remember ever having been truly free. He doesn't even know what it feels like. And at this rate, he's afraid that he never will. Maybe it's petty to be concerned with his personal freedom when the fate of the galaxy is balanced on a knife's edge, but Ben is too tired to think about the fate of the galaxy. He doesn't have a very good track record with trying to save it. Let the Resistance deal with that, and pick up the pieces after. All that Ben knows for certain is that Snoke has to die. He and Rey will attend to that … if he ever gets out of here.

 

The only regular marker of time are Threepio's visits, when the droid brings in Ben's tray of food and vitamins, a canteen of fresh water, and a unceasing flood of prattle. Ben doesn't ask Threepio about Resistance business, and he especially doesn't ask about General Organa. Mostly, because he doesn't need to ask. He knows why the Resistance is thin, why his mother is gone and why her mission is secret. It didn't take too long to figure out; he's not a complete idiot. With the location of their base now known to the First Order, it is only a matter of time before they are attacked here and scattered. A new base must be found, more well-hidden or more easily defensible or both, and it wouldn't do for Ben to learn where that place is before it is secured, because Snoke might somehow manage to pluck the knowledge out of his head. That's why Ben hasn't tried to learn more, hasn't asked any questions since he arrived. His mind has never been a safe place; it still isn't. This is the only way he can help right now. He tries to hold onto that knowledge and take some satisfaction in it, but it's weak and brittle, like a worry stone crumbling in the needy clutch of his fingers. It crumbles quickly, because of course what he's really doing isn't helping. It's just trying not to cause any more harm than he already has. 

 

At irregular intervals, a couple of guards come down and escort Ben to the fresher with their blasters trained on his back. He never says a word, never looks at his guards. He does not know their names, he only knows that they as confused and as restless and as frustrated in their own ways as Ben is in his.

 

Finn is always in charge of them, whether out of orders from higher up or by his choice, Ben doesn't know, and Finn doesn't share. It's equally infuriating and intriguing, as many things about the former stormtrooper are. As ever, he is impossible to dismiss, though Ben certainly tries to ignore him. Chewie comes down when he can, mostly to complain about all the things he keeps finding wrong with the Falcon, and to lament that Ben's not there to pull his weight with the repairs. Chewie seems to think that making Ben feel missed will make him feel better, so Ben doesn't tell him it makes him feel worse.

 

Rey makes a point of coming to see him too. The transparisteel window feels like an enemy between them, but at least she's _there_ and by some miracle, she actually wants to be there. She stays, she sits and talks to him. In spite of all the reasons that she shouldn't want to have anything to do with him, especially now that she has Finn back. He tells himself that she's only there, only putting up with him because of Snoke, but most of the time, they don't even talk about Snoke. Sometimes when he's with Rey, Ben forgets that the horror binding the two of them together even exists. But Rey always has to leave, and Ben always has to stay, and then ... it's just a cage again.

 

_Will I ever be free?_

 

It's not a question that he can imagine voicing aloud. It's a question with no clear answer, unless, as he strongly, sickeningly suspects, the answer is no. But it haunts him all the same, making his circumstances feel even worse.

 

Ben hates being underground. It didn't bother him at first, but it didn't take long for him to become attuned to the feeling of the seeping rock behind the detention block walls, the heavy dark of the soil above him and around him, the lives continuing over him while his own – such as it is – has been locked away and put on hold until someone up there, someone with their lungs full of fresh air and their eyes blessed with real sunlight, decides otherwise. It gives him the impression of being ground beneath the heel of the Resistance while they go about their business and he rots.

 

He grumbles this notion to his father, and Han Solo shakes his head.

 

"I know it ain't exactly a party, Ben," the ghost says, leaning his shoulder against his son's for a moment. "But it ain't as bad as all that. We've only been down here, what? Two days?"

 

"Three," Ben sullenly replies. He wants to kick the wall, but he's already done that so many times his foot is sore. "I feel ... never mind."

 

"Like you're gonna go crazy?" his dad asks knowingly, with an upward flick of an eyebrow.

 

"I know," Ben says, bitterness twisting his mouth into a self-deprecating approximation of a smile. "Too late."

 

"You're not crazy, kid," his father tells him staunchly. "And you're taking this all a lot better than I would be, personally."

 

Ben feels a bright little flicker of hope, eager and hungry in his chest. He looks at his father attentively, searching for signs of deception. He wants to be able to accept this praise, but it sounds too good to be true. "Really?"

 

Han nods, his hazel eyes earnest. "Really. For you to be down here of your own free will in the first place, and not to have caused any trouble this whole time? It's damn mature, Ben."

 

“Mature?”

 

“Yeah, it means ...”

 

Ben scowls at Han. “I know what it means, thanks. I just …” His voice gets softer, and he looks down at his hands, tangled stressfully in his lap. “I just don't think anyone's ever told me I was mature before.”

 

"Well," his father says, gruffly, "there's a first time for everything."

 

\- -

 

Visits from Rey provide more sustenance than any meal or vitamin supplement, even if it's sometimes just as difficult to choke down the fact that she is free to come and go and he is not. Today he senses her coming from far away, her purpose clear, the Force a well-worn, familiar path between the two of them. Ben's alone for the moment, and he takes the time to run a hand through his hair and splash the last of the water from his canteen on his face, using a corner of the scratchy blanket to dry it. His face itches after that, not just from the blanket but from the dark stubble he hasn't been given the opportunity to rid himself of. (He is _not_ going to ask the Resistance for permission to shave.) Despite his efforts, he feels even more unsightly than he usually does. When he catches a glimpse of himself in the transparisteel he has to look away, the red burn of embarrassment creeping along his ears. But there's nothing to be done about it. His face is his face, and if Rey isn't sick of looking at it yet, that's not a gift he's about to question.

 

She's admitted through the outer doors and takes a seat on the duracrete floor by the window as usual. There's a restless energy in her today; he can tell that she's just been sparring. There's dirt on her clothes and sweat in her hair and sunshine lingering on her skin: her freckled face and shoulders browned and gleaming. When Rey is in view, the absence of natural light down here is easy to forget. It's like she brings it with her.

 

"How are things on the surface?" Ben asks her, trying and failing to keep his tone neutral. As always, he keeps some distance between himself and the window at first, but he knows by the time she leaves he'll be as close to the window and therefore as close to her as he can get. He always ends up there, without even trying.

 

Rey makes a face to let him know she caught his sour tone, but she breaks into a smile just as quickly. "Just fine. Master Luke wanted me to practice my forms. I'm still having trouble with Ataru." She rubs her left shoulder, rolling it as her smile turns into a slight grimace of discomfort.

 

Ben feels a stab of longing that goes to his very bones. To hold his lightsaber in his hands, to move in the familiar rhythms of each form, from Shii-Cho to Vaapad, even if he has no opponent but the air. To be in control of something, anything. Just to be able to move freely, no walls around him, no pile of dirt over his head like he's already been placed in a grave and forgotten ...

 

... except of course, he hasn't been forgotten, because Rey has come down to him, has joined him in the dark and dirt.

 

"Did you pull something?" he asks her, as she settles back against the wall on her side of the window.

 

She shakes her head, the sweat dampened curls at her hairline bouncing slightly. "I don't think so. I've just been having some aches recently."

 

"You haven't been getting enough sleep."

 

Rey shakes her head, and it's like the memory of the sunlight is visibly fading out of her and off of her, replaced with hollows and shadows. "Barely any. Tea doesn't seem to help anymore."

 

"Have you talked to Doctor Kalonia about it?"

 

Rey shakes her head again. "I don't want any medicine to cloud my mind." She sounds stubborn about it, and Ben doesn't press.

 

"What does Luke say?"

 

"He says that it will pass in time. That he hasn't been sleeping well, either."

 

Ben slouches, biting his lip to stop himself from instinctively speaking ill of his uncle. Just because he's probably right doesn't mean that what the Jedi says is helpful.

 

"I know he's right," Rey says, as if responding to Ben's thoughts. "But still ... I just have a bad feeling."

 

Ben nods. "I feel it too."

 

"Master Luke says that we should be mindful." Rey worries her lower lip with her teeth, cracks her knuckles absently, before she speaks again. “Something's coming.”

 

They know what it is. And the Resistance knows too, and they and their cause will live or die according to that knowledge. It's out of Ben's hands. Like everything else.

 

“I'm excited to start sparring with you,” Rey says abruptly, turning the conversation back to daylight matters.

 

Ben can't contain his startled smile, which quickly curls into a smirk. “Excited, are you? You should be scared.”

 

Rey laughs delightedly at him, her tired eyes sparkling now. “Oh, really, should I?”

 

He nods. “You should.”

 

Rey flashes a return smirk in his direction. “We'll see about that.”

 

\- -

 

A little while after Rey leaves, Captain Finn comes to escort Ben to the fresher, but this time, he is alone. Tense silence accompanies them, and Ben tries to drown it out with the sound of the water – cold, of course – in the fresher stall roaring in his ears. He knows he doesn't have much time, that the water will cut off automatically, so he rushes to clean himself and wash his hair as fast as he can. For once he manages to get most of the soap rinsed off before the water hisses and dies, leaving him drenched and shivering, eager to get into the too-small grayish sleep pants the Resistance gave him.

 

Ben has just finished cleaning his teeth when he looks up and makes eye contact with Finn in the mirror. He wishes he hadn't, because it seems to prompt something he didn't want to deal with. For the first time in days, the former FN-2187 speaks directly to the former Kylo Ren.

 

He says, abruptly, “I don't like you.”

 

Ben manages not to flinch, but he does have to break eye contact when he says “I don't like you either.”

 

It's not a perfectly accurate summation of his complicated feelings where Finn is concerned, but he's feeling petulant. Did Finn really have to get him alone just to tell him something they both already knew perfectly well?

 

“I don't much care if you do,” Finn retorts.

 

Ben turns around, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring down at Finn. “And what gives you the impression that _I_ care? About your opinion of me, or anyone else's?”

 

Finn's brow furrows, and his jaw sets. His dark gaze can only be described as dead serious. “You care about Rey,” he says, his tone sharp. “Allegedly.”

 

Ben feels like he's being jabbed with a multitude of sharp needles. “Allegedly,” he says in a flat tone.

 

“Well, gee,” says Finn in a voice laden with sarcasm, “I hope you'll forgive me for having trouble believing it. I missed a lot, on account of the coma you put me in.”

 

Ben does not flinch at that either, not visibly. But he does go very still, remembering. _You wronged him,_ he thinks, with unpleasant clarity, _and he has every right to dislike you. To distrust you. To doubt your intentions._

 

“You weren't as easily defeated as I thought you would be,” he says at last.

 

Finn goggles at him. “Is that your idea of a compliment?”

 

Ben's face and ears are scalded with shame. “Maybe.”

 

“Well, save it,” Finn replies. “I didn't come down here to buddy up to you.”

 

Ben grits his teeth, not sure whether to admire Finn's gall or punch him in the face. He settles for neither. “What did you come down here for, _Captain?_ ” he asks in a mocking tone.

 

Finn glares back at him, un-intimidated. “To take you to the fresher.”

 

“You've done that. Now put me back in my cage and leave me alone. That's what you want to do, isn't it?”

 

Finn, to his surprise, actually seems to consider this, taking a moment to pause and breathe and reorient himself. “To be honest, I don't want to be here at all. You give me the creeps.”

 

“Your honesty is commendable,” Ben says snarkily, clenching his fists and releasing them. “Why are you here, if you don't want to be?”

 

Finn lets down his guard then. He groans with frustration and puts his face in his hands. Ben narrows his eyes, observing this. It's a stupid thing to do, and he knows Finn is clever, so this must be calculated. A test to see if he'll take advantage of it? To see how far he can be trusted? The moment is over too quickly for him to be sure. Finn looks back up at him with a resigned expression, a small grim smile.

 

“It's like I said,” he explains. “There are people here who wish bad things on you. I don't happen to be one of them, so …” He shrugs. “Here I am.”

 

Ben cocks his head, studying Finn. Hard to believe he doesn't wish him harm, after everything.

 

“More to the point,” Finn goes on, “Rey cares what happens to you. Rey's my friend, so I care about what she cares about. I trust Rey, and she trusts you. I'm just really hoping that's not a mistake.”

 

Ben's had enough. Just because he deserves to hear this doesn't mean he can stand it right now.

 

“Rey and I,” he grates out, “have an understanding. I wouldn't ...”

 

“Don't tell me that you'd never hurt her,” Finn interrupts, anger coiled far back in his voice. His relatively good humor is gone as quickly as it arrived. “You already have. I was there, I saw it.”

 

Ben had not intended to say any such thing; it would have been dishonest for other reasons too. It's a promise he can't keep, a promise he's already broken and knows he will break again, inevitably. Finn is thinking of Starkiller Base, but Ben knows the damage he's done to Rey, the danger he's put her in, adds up to so much worse than that. It's his fault she's in this mess with Snoke to begin with; if it weren't for his stupidity, would Rey and her powers have come to the Supreme Leader's attention otherwise? Would she ever have had a chance to capture his sick interest?

 

“I don't want to hurt her.” Ben doesn't know why he's bothering to explain this to Finn … well, maybe he does. “I want to help her. She's helped me, so ...” He trails off in embarrassment and frustration. Why is he even trying, why is he even talking? This man is never going to understand, never going to trust Ben Solo, and why should he?

 

“So it's like a life-debt thing.” Finn's voice is calm now and his words are measured. It seems like he has managed to find something that made sense to him, and latched onto it. The definition doesn't seem quite right to Ben; it doesn't quite fit. Rey had shown him mercy in such abundance that she had saved much more than his life.

 

 _There is nothing I could ever do for Rey that would be able to repay what she's done for me,_ Ben realizes. But killing Snoke before he can get his claws any deeper into her … that would at least be a start.

 

“Of course,” he says. “A life debt.”

 

“So,” Finn muses aloud, “you do have some honor, after all. I wondered.”

 

This rankles, and Ben is done being polite. “Call it whatever you want,” he says flatly, locking eyes with Finn. “But understand one thing. I have no desire to hurt Rey, or to let anyone or anything else hurt her, ever again.”

 

After a moment of quiet, Finn speaks up again. “You know, I think you might really mean that. And hey, I hope you do. But the problem is … I've seen what you do to the people who try to help you. People who care about you; I've seen what happens to them. And if anything,” Finn goes on, his voice soft and sure and threatening as thunder “happens to Rey because of you, ever again … well, dark-Jedi guy or whatever you are, I'll be the one leaving you for dead.”

 

For a moment, maybe even less than a moment, Ben wishes he had finished Finn off in the woods on Starkiller, if only so he wouldn't be standing here right now to twist the knife of Ben's past sins and grimly predict future ones.

 

 _But if you had killed him, Rey would never have forgiven you. And everything would have been worse, not better._ So he's denied those fruitless, bloodstained daydreams.

 

“If anything happens,” he allows, after long silent moments, “you're more than welcome to try.”

 

Finn's face registers a moment of surprise, the briefest softening. Then he's in command once again. “Cool,” he says. “I guess that means now we have an understanding.”

 

“I guess we do,” Ben replies.

 

_May this one have a better outcome than the first._

 

\- -

 

Sleep brings with it more different kinds of danger. The oldest enemy Ben has: his own mind, and the nightmares it conjures. He can't protect himself all the time – he has neither the energy nor the ability; he never has – and certainly not when he's asleep. In sleep, he is defenseless: defenseless, weak, and disgustingly vulnerable.

 

He's dreaming of a different bed, in a different time. The place where he rests isn't a cage or a cell but a real room, in a real home: a sanctuary with a familiar scent and warmth for him to nestle in. The bed is small and since he fits in it, he must be small, too. He's burrowed in a blanket that's soft and blue, and sharing the bed with a small, cozy gathering of plush animals in various states of shabby loved-ness. The Tooka doll beneath his cheek has a damp patch of drool matting its purple fur. On his bedside table, a lamp glows a soothing blue, and there's a button on it he can press to make it throw a map of galaxy upon the walls and ceiling, stars and planets all revolving in lazy orbits around him. He presses the button with his finger, smiling with satisfaction as he scatters the stars. Lifting his head from the pillows and stuffed toys, he squints at the crack of light coming from beneath the door. From outside his curtained window come the muffled sounds of the city coming to life, and down the hall he hears footsteps, the noises of people moving around in the well-worn patterns of the morning. His people.

 

He knows that they are _his_ , and he is _theirs_ ; that they belong to one another and always will.

 

Someone is making food … he sniffs. _Mmm._ Corellian pancakes. It doesn't smell like Dad's burned anything yet. Ben's stomach growls a little as he contemplates getting out of bed. Over the clatter of the dishes, he can hear Mom and Dad talking in the kitchen, their voices mingling in a quiet harmony that crests in a shared burst of laughter. They're happy with each other this morning, which makes Ben happy too. He knows he must have had a nightmare last night: his pajamas are sticky with dried sweat and his legs hurt like he's been kicking, and there's a tired heavy feeling behind his eyes. But he can't remember what the bad dream was about, and it's gone now, and for once he hadn't wet the bed. Dad would be proud of him. He wants to get up and go see them, but he's still sleepy ... so he puts his head down and closes his eyes just for a minute ...

 

... when his eyes open again, they do so quickly, widening in alarm. Something's wrong. The air is different, damp and green, thick and ancient. The walls are stone, pocked with moss and vines, and there's a small hole in the ceiling through which the light of Yavin's stars trickle down upon him. It's the only light, the only beauty Ben can find, and it's too far away to touch. Apart from the plants and their heavy green smell, everything in this room is hard and rough, even the cot he's lying on. His bare feet stick awkwardly off the end of it, cold in the night air, the clumsily woven blanket – his own handiwork, at Master Luke's insistence – doesn't begin to cover his legs. He thinks he had another nightmare; his gangly body is sticky with dried sweat, his eyes gummy with dried tears, half-moon intendations carved and stinging into his palms from clenching his fists in the night. Ben puts his face in his hands, hoping against hope that he didn't cry out in his sleep again. Jax, who has the room next door, always seems to hear him and look at him sideways the next day, wondering what the hell is wrong with Ben Solo and how in the world Master Luke's own nephew can possibly be so pathetic.

 

 _I want to go home,_ Ben thinks miserably, desperately, Looking up out the hole in the ceiling, the lights of Yavin's stars blur and bleed together in his eyes as they well with tears. _I want to go home._ But he can't. He can never go home again; there isn't a home to go back to. Mom and Dad don't live together anymore and they don't want him to live with them either. _You didn't belong with them after all. They sent you away, and they don't want you back,_ a voice from somewhere tells him, with a faint note of gloating, as if to say _I-told-you-so._ And Ben knows this must be true. But he also knows that he doesn't belong here, either. Uncle Luke says he's trying to help Ben, but he's hindering him instead. The others don't understand him or like him, and never will at this point, and who cares, right? He doesn't need them to like him, much less understand him. But he can't help it … he wishes that _somebody_ did. And he still cries about it, sometimes. Even now that they're all dead. Even after he killed them, burned this whole place to the ground and collected the ashes.

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry …_

 

He never did get a good night's sleep here, not for five wretched years, and he's not likely to now. Ben scrambles off the cot and stands to his feet, stiff and creaking and chilly, and stumbles to the door. _I don't belong here,_ he thinks, with a choking feeling, ash and flame from his memories whipping at his body, smoke filling up his lungs. _Where do I belong?_

 

When the door falls open, he falls right through it, hitting his hands and knees painfully hard on a durasteel floor. He doesn't understand where he is at first, or how he got here, but a quick look around shows the interior of a toppled AT-AT walker, now a makeshift living space, decorated with bits of junk that someone has painstakingly gathered to make it feel less like a wreck and more like a home. A few dozen scratches mark the far wall, and beneath them, her back to him, huddles a little girl, no more than five years old.

 

She's dressed in little more than rags, her messy, unwashed hair caught up in three raveling buns. Her small body is curled in on itself, shaking. It takes Ben a moment to register that she is crying. A choked, dry sob echoes through the derelict space, the girl's thin shoulders trembling with the burden of her sorrow and her pain.

 

"Rey," Ben murmurs.

 

He doesn't really expect her to hear him, but she does, and turns with the alarm of an animal finding something bigger than itself in its den. With a dirty, tear-smeared face, tiny fists, and wide eyes in a starveling face, the little girl scrambles up and stares him down, her fear and distrust so strong they're like another presence in the room.

 

"I won't hurt you," Ben tells her, crouching low so he can be on the child's eye level. "It's all right.”

 

She trembles again, her cracked lips pressing together, and the lower one begins to bleed. “I'm hungry,” she creaks out, her small voice weak with lack of nourishment.

 

“It's all right,” he tells her again, softly. “It's all over now. This place ... would you like to leave it?"

 

Hope blossoms in her light brown eyes, but she still hesitates, afraid to trust what's being offered, afraid to believe that she's not alone anymore. Ben holds out his hand to her, both encouraging and entreating, and the child makes a decision; he sees it lighting up her eyes and feels it light up the inside of him with a sense of rightness.

 

Eagerly she approaches, throwing herself at him and tightening her arms around his neck in a sudden, smothering hug. It catches him off guard and makes something catch in his throat, and he wraps his arm around her small form, patting her back tentatively, unsettlingly aware of the bones beneath her skin. But still, there is comfort in the act of giving comfort. Maybe she'll be all right after all. Maybe he will, too.

 

When she draws back she smiles wide at him, her brown eyes glittering brightly, baby teeth showing in a white flash. He finds himself smiling back, happy to have made her happy.

 

"Thank you," she says softly, tremulously, but the voice is wrong, it isn't her voice, it's a grown man's voice. It's _his_ voice.

 

Lunging forward, Rey sinks her teeth deep into the side of Ben's face.

 

He falls backward, shock hitting his veins like ice as his skin screams with pain and his heart cracks open with betrayal. She watches him fall, her teeth bared and red with his blood, her eyes alight and alive and ravenous. She watches him fall through space until she vanishes, until the darkness between the stars has swallowed her up and he just keeps on falling. His face burns and his throat aches and he can't breathe …

 

 _She will devour you,_ the cold, sharp voice pierces Ben's consciousness. _She will destroy you. Piece by piece, she will take you apart until your power is spent and your destiny is wasted. Ruin her before she ruins you, Kylo Ren. You cannot help her._

 

The words fill him with horror and a sense of hopelessness, making him feel sick and weak. Or is that the blood loss? Or is he just dizzy because he keeps falling and falling and …

 

... he hits the ground, after an eternity of falling. It feels like rock underneath him, bony and brittle, but oddly enough, the pain is gone. Ben senses danger, though he doesn't know the cause. There is a dark and bloody roiling in the Force, a violence unfolding and rattling the stars. Heat simmering in the air, churning with the shouts and grunts of battle, the sizzle and clash of lightsabers. When he lifts his face, stiff with scar tissue, seeking the source of the conflict, Ben doesn't understand what he is seeing.

 

Luke Skywalker and Rey are fighting. Against a lurid background of black rock and spews of red fire, they lock green and blue sabers again and again, their faces twisted into masks of determination and suffering, neither of them able to get an edge on the other. They look like they have been fighting for a long time. They look they will fight until one or both of them are dead.

 

Rey lets out a wild scream, born more of rage than pain. Tears etch down Luke's weathered face as he knocks her back, again and again. Ben tries to get up and run to them, get between them, make them stop. But he can't. He is trapped behind an interminable layer of transparisteel, and no matter how much he throws himself against it, it will not shatter, it will not let him pass, won't even yield to the Force. He can only watch, helpless, as Rey and Luke try and fail to destroy each other.

 

A hand grips his shoulder, strong and steely. Turning, Ben locks gazes with a man close to his own height, dressed in black, with blue eyes, eyes he knows. They hold him in place, anchoring him and giving him focus, looking at him with intention and great care.

 

“Grandfather?” Ben whispers.

 

“This isn't real,” Anakin Skywalker tells him. All the battle sound seems to fade into the background at the sound of his voice. “This is only a nightmare, Ben. Only a dream. It can't hurt you, or them. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes, but how can I ...”

 

Anakin takes hold of Ben's face in both his hands, one gloved in leather, one bare and calloused and warm. “Don't give it any more power,” he urges, his voice roughening with stress. “Don't give _him_ any more power. Don't make that mistake. Remember who you are. Remember he's afraid of you. Tell Rey that. Tell my son.”

 

“I will,” Ben promises. “I'll tell them. But, Grandfather ...” He trails off, not knowing what he meant to say, knowing not much of anything except that he's scared and he wants some assurance and Anakin Skywalker is the only one who can give him any right now.

 

He doesn't need to say anything. Anakin's stern face softens, making him look very young, as young as Ben or younger. The hands that have been holding Ben in place are gentle now, their touch on his face is soothing and kind.

 

“This is not your destiny, Ben,” his grandfather tells him. “Believe that. Now wake up. Wake up, Ben.”

 

With a jolt, Ben does.

 

\- -

 

He never thought he'd be relieved to find himself here, locked up in his cage, a prisoner under the ground. But it's better than the howling hellscape of loneliness and hopelessness that Snoke had sent like a hurricane to envelop him … so as soon as the familiar duracrete walls and floor and ceiling settle into their proper place around him, Ben gulps deep breaths of stale, processed air and rub his chest until his heartbeat finds a relatively steady rhythm again.

 

His grandfather was right. It was only a dream. An exceptionally bad dream, but a dream nonetheless, and despite how real it felt, it has no power in the waking world … except for the power he decides to give it.

 

 _Then I won't give it anything,_ Ben resolves. Easier said than done, but he will do his best. Resisting the impulse to linger in the cot, throwing off his blanket and stretching himself into wakefulness, feeling like he hasn't gotten any rest at all. He puts his hand to his face, testing: no blood, no torn flesh, just the roughness of scar tissue and the scratch of stubble. The reminder of his disheveled state makes Ben wince, but that too is only temporary. It will pass, even as the nightmare did.

 

 _Rey._ He senses her clearly, the pull of her towards him through the Force as she approaches like a storm rolling in. He waits for her, pacing, anxious. What if she blames him for the nightmare? After all, she wouldn't be having them if it wasn't for him. What if …  


Rey looks frightful when she bursts in; like she hasn't slept in days, but worse, she looks frightened. Her eyes are wide and slightly bloodsthot, underscored by purple shadows, and her breathing is jagged and her body trembles when she tries to be strong, steadying herself against the transparisteel window with her hands braced into fists.

 

“What was that?” she gasps out, before Ben can so much as think of a proper greeting for this circumstance. “Ben, what _was_ that?”

 

Ben lingers at the window, looking into Rey's glassy, exhausted eyes, finding his only slightly less exhausted reflection there. What does she see when she looks at him? Does she still see him as a friend? Or a fraud? Just another person who will inevitably fail her? Just another person who will promise to help her and then let her down? He doesn't want to be that person.

 

“It was a nightmare, Rey,” he tells her, quietly but with conviction. “Just another nightmare.”

 

“But it was so ...” she looks up at him a flicker of desperation in her eyes, tries to steady herself with an unsteady breath. “You believe that?”

 

Ben cautiously touches his fingertips to the window where Rey's fist is pressing. He'd ease her fingers apart and fill the spaces between them with his own, if he could … but he can't touch her. He'll have to reassure her with words alone.

 

“I do believe that,” he says, his voice gaining strength as he grows more alert. “My grandfather … he came to me and woke me up. He told me not to give it any more power by putting faith in it. He told me to tell you the same. It was a nightmare, Rey. It's over now. We're awake now. Nothing that happened while we were asleep can hurt us.” He pushes his fingers against the cold transparisteel and Rey's fists loosen in response, her fingertips aligning with his.

 

“No one came to wake me up,” she murmurs, dropping her gaze to the floor. “I had to do it myself.”

 

Ben doesn't know what to think of that, except that it's not fair. He wonders in what other ways their dreams diverged. “You're strong ...” he starts to say.

 

“Well, maybe I don't _want_ to be strong!” Rey cries out, rearing back up to look at him with glistening, blazing eyes. “Not all the time! Not the kind of strong that means I need to tear myself out of dreams where I hurt the people I care about, or they ...”

 

_Or they hurt me._

 

“I just don't understand,” Rey says, after steadying herself a bit. “Why … why would I be fighting with Master Luke? Why would he be fighting with me?” Her chin trembles, her gaze wavers.

 

“You wouldn't,” Ben tells her sharply. He's a little hurt that she doesn't seem more horrified at the part of the dream where she bit his face off. “And he wouldn't. It was a nightmare, Rey. It was made to scare you. It wouldn't really happen; you're only meant to fear that it will.”

 

“How do we know for sure?” Rey stubbornly asks, digging deeper into the things that hurt her, instead of running away. _Another way in which she's stronger than I could ever be._ “How does your grandfather know?”

 

Ben bristles. “Why would he lie?”

 

“Not a lie, but a mistake, maybe. I've seen things before, Ben. Visions. I saw _you,_ before I ever met you. What if what we both saw in the dream is something that's going to happen, no matter what we do?”

 

Ben opens his mouth but has nothing wise to say. Into the blank silence of his searching mind, there comes a familiar voice.

 

_The future isn't a certain thing, Ben. It's always in motion, always being formed by the thoughts and actions of the living. Tell her that._

 

“My grandfather says that the future is always in motion,” Ben says. “That we shape it with our thoughts and actions.” He paused, waiting for more words, but they didn't come, at least, not from Anakin Skywalker's spirit. Old lessons, teachings he'd pored over, tried to live up to, and then rejected came rushing back to him, and things settled into place, making a sudden sense.

 

“And when we make decisions based on fear,” he says quietly, “we make a fearful future.”

 

Rey considers this in silence. “But if it _is_ a vision ...” she begins.

 

Ben shakes his head. “It doesn't matter, Rey.”

 

“How can it not matter?”

 

“Because Snoke is a liar,” Ben says. “And he wants us to be afraid. Because he's afraid of _us._ ” It still sounds like a joke, even though on some level he knows it's true. Snoke afraid of him? He can – and has – thrown Ben around like a rag doll. He used Ben as a weapon, he made him think it was necessary to kill his own father …

 

 _He kept you weak because he fears you strong._ And Ben will never believe anything that Snoke tries to tell him about his destiny ever again.

 

“Have you talked to Luke yet?” he asks Rey.

 

Rey frowns. “No. I came straight to you.”

 

Ben wishes he wasn't so pleased by that, but he definitely is.

 

“You need to tell him,” he says, after smothering an inappropriate smile. “You know that.”

 

“But how can I? How can I tell him that? What if he's disappointed in me?”

 

“Disappointed in you for what? Dreaming?” Ben shakes his head. “Rey, none of this is your fault, and anyway, you … you mean a great deal to my uncle. That won't easily change. And you need to tell him what you're afraid of, because ...”

 

“... because Snoke wants me not to,” Rey finishes grimly. “Yes, I understand. You're right, Ben.”

 

This time Ben doesn't quite manage to conceal a smile, and to his surprise and pleasure, Rey returns it.

 

“He didn't want me to come to you, either,” she says suddenly. “I could feel it. When I woke up, at first all I wanted to do was hide. Keep in the shadows, be ashamed of myself for what I'd done in the dream. But I couldn't bear being alone with my thoughts, and I wanted to see you, I _needed_ to see you. But for some reason I felt like I was being shoved out, pushed away. But I knew if Snoke was trying to keep me away from you that … with you was where I needed to be.”

 

Ben feels his face heat. “He knows I'm stronger when I'm with you,” he mumbles, casting his eyes down. “He knows that together we can destroy him. So of course he would want to keep us apart.”

 

“And why he wants me to believe that I can't trust Master Luke,” Rey muses.

 

Ben nods. “He's afraid of us. I was supposed to remind you of that. My uncle, too. Will you tell him, when you see him?”

 

Rey nods. “Of course I will.”

 

An uneasy silence falls, lengthening like a shadow over them.

 

“You should go try to rest,” he says finally to Rey, “or find Luke and talk to him.”

 

“Not yet,” Rey says, and her voice is heavy with exhaustion, her eyelashes low as if she can barely keep her eyes open. “I'd like to stay with you a little while longer … if that's okay ...”

 

“Stay as long as you want,” Ben tells her softly. “I don't mind.”

 

She smiles drowsily and settles, finally, in her usual place on the floor, leaning against the window. Ben settles down on his side, the transparisteel cold against his shoulder.

 

“I wish ...” Rey falters, her words trailing away.

 

“You wish … ?”

 

She shakes her head, messy hair swirling out of its ponytail, and her eyes flutter shut. “Never mind,” she mumbles.

 

It's too much to hope that she wishes the same thing he wishes: for the window to disappear, so he can feel the warmth of her hand, so he can touch and be touched by someone he trusts, the only one who knows what this nightmare feels like.

 

He watches Rey slip into slumber and hopes it will be untroubled, this time. It's easy to see the ghost of the starving child in her sleeping face, bearing a need so great it has gnawed her hollow, leaving pain that will not go away.

 

 _She will devour you,_ he remembers Snoke saying. _She will take you apart, piece by piece …_

 

 _So be it,_ Ben thinks fiercely. _So long as we take you apart first._ Looking at Rey, he wills good dreams for her. He doesn't know if that's in his power or not, but it feels right to try. To wish her a field of flowers, or a blue ocean with soft lapping waves. Something nice. She deserves something nice.

 

“This is not your destiny,” Ben whispers, feeling his grandfather's words take shape in his own mouth. He will keep holding on to them, until he can believe him. Or understand them. Or until his mother comes.

 

 

\- -

 

The First Order gets there first.

 

The day after the nightmares, in the middle of his millionth attempt to meditate, Ben feels a ripple in the Force, a tumbling sensation in the pit of his stomach. Disoriented, he opens his eyes, and though everything around him looks the same, he knows it isn't. He rolls off his cot, tripping over his own feet and stumbling to the window of the cell. It's an instinctive reaction, and a stupid one; he can't see anything except the stained, crumbling walls of the detention block. And he doesn't need to see it to know what's going to happen.

 

He reels back from the window, tension coiling around him, through him. _I have to get out of here._

 

“Let me out,” he snaps at the security cam. Its red light still blinks steadily on, but it doesn't follow his movements, and the door doesn't open. There is no response of any kind. It doesn't seem like anyone is actively monitoring him right now, and even if they were, he can't afford to care.

 

Ben's hands curl into fists as his racing mind weighs his options. Asking to be let out was a courtesy, and a foolish waste of time. He doesn't need their permission to be released. This entire time, his captivity has been pure cooperation on his part, and it has nearly driven him mad. It can't continue. It doesn't matter what they think of him; the First Order is coming to crush the Resistance and Rey is up there, and Luke, and Chewie, and Artoo, and Threepio. Ben won't let anything, neither durasteel or blaster bolts, stop him from reaching the surface.

 

Alarm klaxons start to sound, filling the cell block with the noise of panic, but it's only the echo of what was already in Ben's heart. He settles his forehead against the transparisteel window and takes a deep breath. It's hard to calm down, with the threat looming overhead and the sirens wailing in his ears and beating in his blood.

 

So he doesn't calm down. Instead, he lets go.

 

The cam sparks, pops and explodes, smoking, filling the cell with acrid scent of burning tech, and the transparisteel in front of Ben cracks in a hundred places at once, becoming a tapestry of broken pieces and then bursting apart with a spectacular crash. Heedless of the shards in his hair, Ben bursts through the empty space where the window used to be, his adrenaline surging, making him feel like a bird in flight. The durasteel door in front of him bends and breaks, screeches loose of its frame and flies out into the and the door falls and hits the floor of the detention block, a ruined, twisted hunk of metal, cracking the duracrete beneath it and making a booming sound that echoes and echoes.

 

With power flowing through him, Ben hurdles the debris and takes off running, running for the surface. For the fight, and the fate that waits beyond.

 

For his freedom.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love my boy okay 
> 
> please excuse any mistakes, i am posting this at 2:30 am out of LOVE


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bring it on, Ben thinks.

_Boom._

 

_**Boom.** _

 

_**BOOM.** _

 

Explosions from above reverberate dully through the ground, rattling the detention block. Being buried alive is now a distinct possibility. Ben's feet barely even touch the ground as he scales the mounts to the surface, his lungs aching for unprocessed air, his skin itching for sunlight. One flight of stairs, one corridor to go. Nothing standing in his way.

 

Except, as Ben finds when he crests the final stair, there _is_ someone standing in his way. It's Captain Finn, halfway down the corridor, framed in the hectic red hue of the emergency lights. He pauses in midstride, his eyes widening, his blaster drawn and leveled at Ben's chest.

 

Ben freezes, but it isn't fear that's stilled him, only consideration. Power still hums beneath the surface of his skin, and he could use it. But he doesn't. All the noise from outside fades to the background, and everything shrinks to a pinpoint focus.

 

_Did he come down here to kill me?_

 

The thought barely has time to form before Finn lowers the blaster to his side, muttering something that looks like a curse.

 

"Guess I can't be too mad at you for breaking out," he half-yells to Ben, over the sound of the sirens and shouting. “Saved me having to come all the way down to get you.”

 

Ben cocks his head as he looks at Finn, the wild rush of power inside of him turned down, running like a current instead of crashing like a wave. It takes a moment for him to realize he himself has caused this change, has brought himself back under control. In that moment, he doesn't move much, which causes Finn some consternation.

 

"Oh, for the love of ..." Finn exhales a disgusted sigh, passing a hand over his tired eyes to give them a moment of relief from the emergency lights. “We don't have time for this, Ren. We've got to get off this planet before ...”

 

“That's not my name,” Ben interrupts, taking a step towards Finn. There is daylight forcing through the cracks at the edges of the detention block doors, and this is what Ben is focused on now. He can worry about Finn's motivations later, if there is a later.

 

Finn blinks, and then takes it in his stride. “Fine, okay, whatever. Let's just go.”

 

"Aren't you going to give me a weapon?” Ben asks sardonically, drawing level with Finn as they approach the doors. The light seems to strain outside, pushing in as if it could make the doors bend inward. Ben feels his heart jumping, racing to meet it.

 

"No way," Finn replies, readying his own blaster. “Just shut up and follow my lead, okay?”

 

For lack of a witty reply, Ben does as he's told, and he and Finn bolt out of the detention block and headlong into the war.

 

First thing, Ben throws an arm up to shield his unaccustomed eyes from the blazing light. They sting and water anyway until the shadow of a ship blots out some of the light and gives his vision a moment to adjust. It isn't just the sun that's beating down: the entire base seems to be on fire, flames leaping high into the air, climbing and clawing as if they want to tear down the sky itself, eat up the atmosphere, destroy the whole world. X-wings and TIEs roar by overhead, locked in battle, lasers of red and green spilling like gruesome fireworks. Two ships collide with each other in midair and explode, their mingled wreckage tumbling off into the forest, sending up a single pillar of smoke; the First Order pilot and the Resistance pilot indistinguishable in death. Ben's ears are filled with the screams of machines and people as a First Order transport lands nearby, spilling a division of stormtroopers into the fray.

 

It's chaos, and it's disorienting, especially after days spent underground. The only steady and certain thing in all of it is Finn, who suddenly seizes the front of Ben's shirt and shoves him into an alcove between two bunkers and holds him there with a firm elbow to his chest as a cluster of flametroopers rush by, intent on finding something else to burn. Finn turns his face to watch them pass, a trickle of sweat creeping down his cheek. He smells of fire and the worn leather of his jacket and also kind of like a forest. None of these things are relevant, but Ben notices them anyway. His senses are being overloaded and he struggles for breath, Finn's elbow jabbing into him painfully when he exhales. He's not a prisoner anymore, he doesn't have to take this manhandling, he's not sure how much more of this he can tolerate …

 

Finn lets up though, just before Ben is about to push him away. Maybe he's tired of holding his arm at that awkward angle, maybe he isn't thinking at all and is just relaxing for a moment to plan their next move, but for whatever reason, he holds a hand to Ben's shoulder instead. It's as much to steady himself as to warn Ben to be still. Purely utilitarian. But even so … it feels like something an ally would do. It isn't something you'd do to someone you didn't trust, at least an infinitesimal bit, on some instinctive level. Finn seems to reach this conclusion at the same moment Ben does, and drops his hand to his side, shaking his head.

 

Ben opens his mouth to say something, ideally something insulting, but a TIE screams over on an attack run, and a missile whines, drowning out everything. He and Finn lock eyes. Different as they are, both of them are thinking the exact same thing in that moment, and it's an unprintable word.

 

Both men act as one, flattening themselves on the ground in a tangled heap just as the missile smashes the detention block and the surrounding bunkers to smithereens. Instinctively Ben throws his hand up and uses the Force, repelling large chunks of duracrete and other projectiles from himself and Finn.

 

Bits of the structure fall like rain, a shower of rubble that seems to go on and on. Dust and grit coat the inside of Ben's mouth when he makes the mistake of letting it fall open for a few seconds, weary of his grinding jaw. Next to Ben's ear, Finn is coughing too, but it sounds like it's coming from far away; everything muffled in the wake of the explosion. With his hearing dulled, Ben can feel the Force more keenly, and with it, he can feel Rey. She is out there, and she needs help.

 

When the ground is still again, he and Finn both stagger to their feet. Everything looks completely different than it did a minute ago. Where once they had sheltered in the shadow of buildings, now they are out in the open, in a landscape of twisted metal and broken rock and thick smoke. Finn wipes dust from his face, and hoists his blaster to his shoulder as his narrowed eyes scan the perimeter. Ben spits out a mouthful of dust – and blood, apparently, he bit his tongue at some point – and turns to stare Finn down.

 

"I'm going to Rey," he states, his voice hoarse, the inside of his mouth still slightly gritty. "Don't try and stop me."

 

To Ben's surprise, Finn doesn't argue, though conflict darkens his eyes and settles in his jaw; his decision is already made but he doesn't like it.

 

“I'm not going to stop you,” Finn says at last. He takes a quick breath, inhales more dust, and doubles up in a quick, violent burst of coughing. Ben half-raises a hand, remembers the stitching on the back of Finn's jacket and the vicious burn beneath, and stops. When Finn is finished coughing, he straightens up, wipes his mouth with his equally filthy jacket sleeve, and faces Ben. “She was at the Falcon last I saw her,” he says roughly.

 

This squares with what Ben's senses are already telling him, so he just gives a short nod.

 

“And she has your …” Finn hesitates. “Your lightsaber.” The word is a flinch when he speaks it, an involuntary shuddering away from the memories it brings. But he has said it, all the same. “If you, you know. Need it.”

 

“Thank you.” Ben has to urge the words out, rough-edged and reluctant. He still resents them for taking the lightsaber away from him in the first place; like he's a reckless child with a dangerous toy. But it took a lot for Finn just to mention it, and Ben understands.

 

Now Finn stands straighter, resolute. There is a keen glint in his eyes. “I'll meet you guys there.”

 

Ben cocks his head again. “You're not coming.” He doesn't say it like a question, but it is one.

 

“Not until I've made sure I haven't left anyone behind.” Finn squares his shoulders, his proud mouth thinning to a grave line. “If it comes to it, though … if we can't catch up … don't wait.”

 

Ben can feel it more strongly now than before; the danger. Finn – Captain Finn – has a duty to the Resistance. He, Ben, has a duty that lies elsewhere. The understanding carves deeper, a switchback between their divergent paths.

 

“May the Force be with you,” he hears himself saying.

 

Finn looks shocked. “Um. Thanks. You too, Re- … um … So- … um ... dude.”

 

And then they are both running, each in opposite directions, just two traitors who, for the time being, have each found something better to fight for.

 

\- - -

 

Ben runs through the midst of the battle without a weapon, but it doesn't matter. He himself is a weapon, and he'll cut down whatever he has to in order to reach his destination.

 

At first, all he really has to do is dodge stray fire and avoid getting too close to anything that's exploding. No one he glimpses in passing is paying him any attention; there is more ruination than Resistance left, and the Order will soon just be tying up loose ends here. Not being targeted ought to be a relief, but Ben doesn't feel like he's in the right place until a blaster bolt grazes him, too close to be an accident. As the pain of a superficial burn blooms on his side, a fierce smile blooms on his face.

 

 _Bring it on,_ Ben thinks. He didn't know how to be a prisoner, still doesn't much about being a person, but he damn well knows how to be a person who's being shot at. And he damn well knows how to survive.

 

Ben moves on with the Force, knocking blaster bolts aside with quick, impatient sweeps of his hands. It's a reckless strategy, the hiss of promised pain mere inches from his skin sometimes, but it's his only option without his saber, and besides … it feels _good_. This is who he is: untamed power clumsily shaped like a man. It was always a lonely feeling before, bittersweet. Not anymore, not now that he's following the tense silvery thread that runs from him to Rey, herself a walking combustion of the best and worst that the Force has to offer the galaxy.

 

At some point, the amount of bolts being thrown his way slows from a volley to a trickle. Overhead, a few low-flying fighters are locked in combat, shrieking through the sky. An X-Wing erupts in flames and plummets to the ground, the doomed pilot only narrowly managing to avoid smashing into the very hangar he or she emerged from; the fireball wreck of a TIE fighter a few moments later has no such restraint. Bits of flaming debris go flying. Smoke billows, thick and choking, filling the air. Ben's eyes are clouded and stinging, and he blinks furiously and keeps running, his muscles not aching but singing, and he's ever conscious of Rey somewhere up ahead, so tightly locked in combat that she can feel and focus on nothing but staying alive. She's close; he can feel her.

 

Through the shimmer of radiating heat, Ben catches glimpses of his surroundings: a ship blown to bits before it could take off, burnt bones in the wreckage. A scattered group of fighters running and coming together, taking refuge behind piles of rubble and taking their shots where they can. The quick black and white flashes of stormtrooper armor, blue blaster bolts sailing back and forth, flying sparks ... each detail stands out chopped and sharp and clear, like pieces of a puzzle scattered on the floor, making no sense on their own, only together.

 

And there, just barely touched by the smoky haze, is the Falcon. Ben catches his breath, his chest tightening: he's afraid this might be too good to be true, that the Falcon might burst into flames at any moment, but no, she's fine; she's in one piece and so is Chewie, who has just ducked for cover behind some barrels to reload his bowcaster. Dazed or dead stormtroopers are piling up in his vicinity. It's with Rey that Ben's focus lies.

 

The blue of her lightsaber flashes out, quick and deadly; a trooper is cut in half at her feet. She looks up sharply from her kill and her eyes lock onto Ben. He feels something, like a tug on the connection between them and then a slackening as Rey's shoulders sag with relief, but it's an ease she can ill afford; more foes are coming and coming fast. Neither of them has more than a second to breathe before it all begins again.

 

Ben doesn't throw himself into the fray so much as being swept up in it. A stormtrooper who seems to have lost his blaster rams into Ben's shoulder, so Ben shoves him back, hard, and when the 'trooper tries again, Ben catches him and throws him into some nearby crates. The 'trooper lands heavily and limp, and doesn't try him again. Another opponent rushes him and comes to regret it, catching Ben's fist in the throat, not sufficiently protected by the blank plasteel armor. The 'trooper stumbles back clutching their throat, repelled. Ben relishes the pain in his knuckles.

 

"Ben!" Rey yells, and he turns quick to see her holding something in her outstetched hand, pointing it in his direction. “Catch!”

 

His saber hilt hurtles through the air, and he snatches hold of it neatly and lights it up. _Hello there._ The crackling fire, the wild heat; the closest thing to a friend he had for years. The next one who charges him is the next to feel its heat and power; a quick death.

 

Back in battle, with his weapon in hand, it no longer matters who his enemies are. All that matters is stopping them, cutting them down. And he's always been good at that. He keeps being good at it.

 

Rey is good at it, too. To look at her, no one would know that this is her first real battle. Of course, she still has much to learn, her fighting style is more brute force than grace and skill, but Ben would have to admit that the same could be said of him. The power that she wields from within is more than sufficient to compensate for a lack of finesse in her form, and besides, her opponents are only stormtroopers. Their main strength is in numbers.

 

Their numbers are sufficient enough to be troubling, however. For every soldier he and Rey and Chewie take down, another seems to appear in seconds to take the fallen one's place without a second's hesitation. _Even to themselves, they don't matter._

 

In the thick of things, Ben and Rey are swept close together, fighting side by side, then back to back, fending off the threats, however minor, from all sides: repelling blaster bolts with swirls of their sabers, knocking back stormtroopers who just seem to keep getting back up again. Without words, they figure out how to move together, where to plant their feet, how to brace each other when it's needed, how to see a threat coming, convey it, neutralize it. As an enemy, Rey is ferocious. As an ally, she is everything Ben could ever ask for. He hopes when this is over she will think the same of him.

 

“Where's Luke?” he manages to ask her, in a shout over his shoulder. He can barely hear himself over the din, but she hears him.

 

“I don't know,” she answers, deflecting more blaster fire with a turn of her saber. “He wasn't here when the alarms went off.” She draws a hard, quick breath; Ben can feel the motion where her body is pressed to his. “Where's Finn?”

 

 _Hopefully not getting himself killed._ Aloud Ben says, “He's coming. The droids, where ...” He stops talking in order to turn aside the electrostaff of a fervent stormtrooper. This is enough of a challenge that his mind is actually occupied … for the few seconds it takes him to force the trooper into a lock, kick the legs out from under them, and divest them of both their weapon and their life.

 

Rey absorbs the impact of Ben's movements just as he's absorbing hers; he thinks they're probably absorbing each other's energy as well. “On the ship,” she answers him, breathless, belatedly. “Artoo has to repair some wires before we can take off.” Her voice is tense.

 

 _Oh, great._ Even if he could convince Rey to leave without Finn – somehow he doesn't think that's likely – neither of them could leave without Luke, and if Artoo doesn't hurry up with his repairs then none of them are getting out of this.

 

The Falcon jolts and rumbles to life a few seconds later, as if purely to spite Ben's pessimism; it seems like something his father's ship would do. It's also just like Artoo to come through at the last minute … and this is definitely the last minute, because more First Order transports are starting to land, and a shuttle as well. _Phasma._ D'Qar is lost.

 

And yet, something ripples through the Force … a turning of the tide in an unexpected direction.

 

Hoarse, impassioned cheers rise up from the few Resistance fighters on the ground, and X-wings swoop across the sky. And another, and another and another, fresh to the battle, and it's then that Ben understands what's going on; that from somewhere across the galaxy, the scattered Resistance has regrouped on D'Qar one last time, to give their compatriots a chance to escape, to live. They are still outnumbered and outgunned, just not hopelessly so.

 

This doesn't dampen the determination of the stormtroopers around the Falcon, though. Chewie keeps at it with his bowcaster, tearing up the ground and sending troopers flying, but there are always more. It's beginning to set Ben's teeth on edge; he can feel Rey's frustration mounting, they have to find a way to end this. He knows they can. It's only a matter of how.

 

In the end, it's a Resistance ship that decides it for them. The X-Wing swoops low and targets the First Order transports and then the flurry of troops on the landing pad area with expert laser blasts, dodging enemy fire with uncanny skill. These shots reduce the First Order forces around the Falcon to a mess of easily picked-off stragglers, and the smart ones run to a more easily defensible position to regroup, leaving Ben, Rey, and Chewie to catch their breath and, in theory, make their escape.

 

Ben meets Rey's eyes. They both know this is not a place to linger, but …

 

“We can't leave without Finn and Master Luke,” Rey says.

 

Ben growls frustration. “I'll go find ...”

 

Chewie roars that no, he will not. And waves one massive, furry arm toward the west.

 

Hazy shapes head through the smoke toward the Falcon: a small crowd of Resistance fighters, battered and filthy but alive. Finn is among them, staggering as he bears the weight of a limping, bleeding stormtrooper leaning heavily on his side. Face set, Finn staggers on alone with his human burden until a young woman with two blonde hair-buns takes the 'trooper's other arm, helping Finn to move him along.

 

Luke Skywalker brings up the rear of the group, keeping pursuers off their tail with deft, expert flashes of his green lightsaber. A missile hits the ground not far from them, and huge chunks of dirt and rock fly through the air only for Luke to deflect them seemingly without effort, using a more refined version of the same shielding technique Ben had used earlier. Luke, of course, is who he learned it from.

 

Luke meets his nephew's eyes, his blue eyes sparking, giving him a tiny nod. Ben nods back, relieved.

 

“Come on!” Rey yells, urging everyone onto the Falcon. They all board as fast as they can, Rey racing ahead of them to get to the controls as Finn shepherds the rescued and wounded into the main hold. Somehow he manages to be both calm and commanding. This irritates Ben. He's also irritated that he's now out of the action, with nothing to keep his mind or his hands occupied, and he's irritated at all these people, these _strangers_ on the Falcon. When the ship lurches into hyperspace, Ben lurches too, bracing his hand on the nearest wall until he regains his balance, but the motion pulls at the singed skin where the blaster bolt grazed him earlier, and a hiss of pain passes through his teeth. He ignores it, and when he finds his footing, he turns to escape the hold.

 

A strong hand closes around his arm: not hard, but enough to slow him down, if only in surprise. Turning back, Ben is not so surprised to see it's Finn who's halted him. There is no enmity in the other man's brown eyes, just anxiety at their current fugitive circumstances. “Would you mind giving me a hand here?” Finn asks in a strained voice.

 

Ben does mind, but he bites back the reaction to pull away. What else would he be doing if he's not helping Finn? He can't fly, and anyway Rey and Chewie have that covered. He would have been more than happy to serve as gunner, but his uncle got there before he could. So that's how Ben finds himself pressed into service as a medic.

 

As he gingerly presses a bacta patch on the arm of a short mechanic, a girl with dark hair who visibly loathes him, his mind wanders. Neither Luke nor Rey seemed to be injured, but they could be hiding something.

 

 _Like you are?_ The voice in his head sounds suspiciously like his dad's. He closes his mind to it and focuses on things that matter. Rey wasn't wounded; he would know it. And Uncle Luke has the sense to know whether he needs medical attention or not.

 

A feeble groan rises from Ben's left; he hears someone murmuring to hush it, recognizes the voice as Finn's. With a curt nod to his reluctant patient, Ben turns to see Finn crouching by the bench seat where the injured stormtrooper has been laid out, his helmet removed and discarded. He can't hear what Finn is saying to the other, visibly younger man, but it's obviously words of comfort, of reassurance. Ben watches curiously.

 

As if he can feel the eyes on him, Finn looks over his shoulder and scowls at Ben. “He asked for my help,” he says, as if daring anyone in the room to challenge his decision to show mercy to an enemy.

 

Ben shrugs.

 

“Aren't there any sedatives on this ship?” Finn says next, looking around in dismay. “This man's in a lot of pain.”

 

Oh, kriff. Rey and Chewie must have used all the sedative on Ben to stop him banging his head on the walls all those days ago. “I can make him sleep,” he hears himself saying gruffly to Finn. He must have spoken more loudly than he meant to, or maybe he just had the bad timing to speak at a moment when no one else was, because suddenly everyone is looking at him.

 

Heat crawls across his face and his jaw grinds, but Ben desperately tries to ignore the attention, only looking at Finn.

 

“Do it,” Finn says, after a moment's consideration.

 

Ben stands over the bench, casting a shadow over the young 'trooper. There's blood all over the boy's face and whimpers and panting seem to be the only communication he's capable of. Not wanting to draw out the boy's ordeal, Ben calls on the Force, feeling the frantic beat of the other human's heart, the rapid pull of the blood through his veins. With a motion of his hand, he slows all that down, sinking the boy into unconsciousness like a deep sea, where he will float, unaware of his pain, until some medic who knows what they're doing wakes him up again. With his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling slowly, the boy slumbers. In sleep, he could be anyone.

 

Finn is the only one to thank Ben for the help. Part of it could be that no one else cares about the stormtrooper or his wounds, but part of it is also that they don't like Ben, and didn't like seeing what he could do to another human being with what looked to them like a simple wave of his hand.

 

As soon as he can, Ben slips out of the hold. The energy in there is scratching at his mind and putting him on edge, tearing holes in the equilibrium he'd managed so briefly to attain in the wake of battle. His presence isn't helping the people in there any more than they're helping him. Apparently he's even a monster when he's helping instead of hurting. Good to know.

 

In the cockpit, back among people who presumably don't hate him, Ben feels the pressure starting to lift, just a little. He doesn't know when, if ever, he'll be able to relax again, but it won't be until long after they've reached their destination. He sits down quietly in the free seat next to his uncle – Luke has returned from the gunner's seat, so the danger must be past – with Artoo on the floor between them, and Threepio on Luke's other side, blathering something about the coordinates that Chewie has entered make no sense, Chewie hollering back something to the effect of if Threepio knows so much, why doesn't he fly the ship? Threepio sputters indignantly at this before lapsing into sullen mutterings.

 

“Take it easy, Threepio,” Luke says calmly, patting the droid's shiny shoulder. He catches Ben's eye and they exchange glances, like sharing a joke. More pressure dissipates, more weight leaves Ben's shoulders, and he leans back in his seat somewhat. _Take it easy, take it easy._

 

The little convoy of Resistance ships, rounded out by the Falcon, hurtles through hyperspace. The journey is surprisingly short, and when they drop out of lightspeed, they find themselves in a stretch of space that is barren: except for one lone object, floating up ahead. Ben stares, trying to make sense of what he's seeing.

 

“What … what _is_ that?” Rey peers out of the viewport, her brow furrowed. “An asteroid?”

 

Luke's eyebrows rise high, and his beard twitches. “It's a space station,” he murmurs.

 

Chewie groans.

 

“I heartily concur, Chewbacca,” says Threepio. Artoo makes an exasperated beep, the droid equivalent of rolling his eyes.

 

Luke is right. The object comes into clearer, sharper focus as they near it, dominating their view by virtue of being the only thing in sight. The space station is as small and makeshift as the Resistance itself, its surface a pitted patchwork of assorted materials. One can tell by looking that these materials weren't chosen with any thought for their aesthetic value, purely for their ability to withstand laser blasts and the vacuum of space. It's no Death Star, though the comparison remains inevitable. At one point in time, Ben might have found the sight of it laughable. It's not just a pale echo of a past technological terror, but a downright parody. There's no way this blob of space junk could withstand a battle with the full military might of the First Order. It's a joke.

 

But he's not inclined to laugh now. The thoughts racing through his head are all halted, and he catches his breath as they draw closer to the station… and he feels it.

 

A bright spark in the ether of space. A heat in the center of all that cold metal. A burst of color spreading out in the deepest darkness.

 

“Mom,” Ben says quietly. He doesn't even realize he's this spoken aloud until the others turn to glance at him. It doesn't matter. Nothing now matters except how close she is. And if he can sense her, then she can certainly sense him.

 

Luke Skywalker is also unsettled. His hands are folded too tightly in his lap as Chewie and Rey guide the Falcon towards the station's waiting hangar. But he keeps his apprehension to himself, bearing it stoically, the tight lace of his fingers the only sign. Ben would like to do the same, but he feels close to unraveling. All of his remaining energy will have to go into holding the frayed edges of himself together for his mom.

 

“So this is what the General was working on,” Rey says, a touch of wonder in her voice. “It's perfect.”

 

The junky little station is far from perfect. But Ben's heart, loudly overruling his intellect, echoes Rey's sentiments.

 

 _My mother made this._ It's bold. And more than a little reckless. And it feels like a fist, raised and shaken, defiant: hope, in the face of hopeless odds. Ben isn't much for hope, but he knows his mother is.

 

Ben lingers in the cockpit when the Falcon docks in the hangar, joining the other Resistance ships that escaped D'Qar and those who aided them in the battle. They all bring with them the aftermath of the attack: people dirty and staggering and dazed, as well as those who are straight-spined and steely-eyed, looking ahead to the inevitably of the next fight. Ben is neither of those. He is anxious and afraid and irritable, uncertain what he is supposed to be doing. Dimly, he is still aware of his mother's strong presence, but she isn't in the hangar, which he is glad of. He is not ready to face her yet.

 

 _You will never be ready,_ he has to admit to himself _._ But at least he can put it off a little while longer.

 

Finn jumps to action the moment the ramp goes down, calling for aid for the wounded on the Falcon. Medics come with gurneys for those who cannot walk and encouragement for those who can. On one of the gurneys they carry out is the young stormtrooper, still unconscious, chest rising and falling weakly beneath his dented and dirtied armor. Finn sticks by his side. Rey disappears to check the ship for stragglers. Chewie seems to get excited when he catches sight of Doctor Kalonia, and heads off to help with the wounded, mussing Ben's hair on his way past. Even the droids leave the ship in a hurry, Threepio vowing to anyone who will listen that he is never going to set foot on the Falcon again, Artoo beeping at him to shut up. Ben considers following them, but Threepio will go to Leia first thing. He can fill her in the details of what happened on D'Qar, tell her more important things than Ben could. He catches sight of Poe Dameron and his ridiculous droid standing next to Dameron's starfighter, recognizes it as the one that helped him and Rey and Chewie, and feels like being sick, slouching low in his seat until the “best pilot in the Resistance” is out of sight.

 

Finally it's only Ben and his uncle left sitting the cockpit, neither of them in any hurry to move into the uncertain future that awaits them beyond the safety of the Falcon.

 

Luke lets out a sigh, looks at Ben. “Well,” he says finally, heavily. “I'd better go and see my sister.”

 

Ben bites his lip. “You'd better.” After all, it was Luke Skywalker she had spent years looking for. In the wake of a defeat, seeing her efforts to get the Jedi on her side have been successful would be something of a victory, at least.

 

Luke regards Ben without surprise. “You won't come with me?”

 

Ben turns his face away, gazing unfocused out the viewport at the flurry activity in the hangar. “I'm staying with the Falcon.”

 

Luke doesn't press him. He rises from his seat, shakes out his cloak. “You fought well today, Ben,” he says.

 

Ben looks back at his uncle in surprise, not quite able to hide it before he ducks his head. “You too,” he says lamely in response.

 

He feels his uncle smile rather than seeing it, and then Luke Skywalker leaves him.

 

Without anyone else around, the cockpit feels lonely. Though there is still plenty of noise and activity in the hangar, it's all irrelevant to Ben, fading away behind a deeper awareness: the station has begun to move. One of the benefits of having a floating base is that you don't have to worry about being stuck in one location. The Resistance could travel across the galaxy now, but still have a central headquarters. It's not a huge advantage, against the massive odds they're still facing, but it's a smart idea.

 

Ben doesn't want to be in the cockpit anymore, and he feels a need to reclaim his territory, so he rises from the seat and wanders into the main hold, his heavy footsteps echoing in the emptiness. Around the hold are signs of its recent occupation: crumpled gauzy ends of bandages, the trash from used-up bacta patches, dirty boot prints, drops of blood. Ben wrinkles his nose in disgust, and starts cleaning up, only because he wants it to be clean, not because he thinks he should have to. He can hear Rey puttering around somewhere below the floor, and he doesn't want her to clean it. She's done more than enough, and he has nothing else to do. Except go see his mother …

 

 _She'll be busy,_ Ben reminds himself, furiously scrubbing his hands. _Probably for hours. I'll just be in the way._ Just like that, he feels like a kid again, kicking his feet against the wall in some lonely corridor and waiting for someone to pay attention. He has to wait to his turn. There was always something more important; he'd fled from that in anger as a boy and suffered the consequences as a man. He had chosen to return, even knowing he'd never come first as long as there was a Resistance. He will just have to get used to it.

 

But how can he possibly get used to that?

 

“Hey,” Rey murmurs, appearing behind him. She stands close, her arm just brushing his. “Are you okay?”

 

Ben nods mechanically.

 

“Convincing,” Rey says dryly.

 

Ben turns and looks down at her. She looks as dirty and tired as he feels, but she's still trying to smile through it all, and somewhat succeeding. Discreetly – at least he hopes he's being discreet – Ben rakes her form with his eyes, checking for injuries she might be hiding. She seems merely weary. What's troubling her goes beyond the physical. “And you?” he asks her, lifting an eyebrow.

 

Rey grimaces. “I'm fine.”

 

“Convincing.”

 

She makes a face at him, but the mirth falters, the light in her eyes clouded. “I just hated it. All the … the killing.”

 

“They would have killed you if you had given them the chance.” Or taken her to Snoke, which might have been worse.

 

“I know that. But somehow, that doesn't make it much easier … to remember what it felt like to … cut through them, the way they felt apart, or how it smelled ...” Beneath the dirt and ash Rey's face looks pale. She bites her lip and turns her face to the side.

 

With careful fingertips, Ben reaches out and touches Rey's cheek. He doesn't have any words that will make the slaughter easier for her to bear. The only thing that makes that easier is the numbness of repetition.

 

Rey closes her eyes and breathes deeply. When she opens her eyes again, the light has returned, brighter than before. “No more cage,” she says.

 

“No more cage,” Ben agrees.

 

Rey hugs him.

 

He hadn't expected it, and she doesn't know about the burn on his side that she's pushing on, that's probably why he struggles to breathe as she presses against him, that has to be why he's dizzy. Beneath the bloody, fiery animal reek of battle, Rey still smells like Rey. Ben wraps his arms around her, awkwardly at first but then they find a way to stand together in peace just as they had in violence. He threads his fingers through her battle-snarled hair. She settles her face against his shoulder, her breath sneaking through the fabric of his shirt to warm his skin.

 

“I missed you,” she mumbles.

 

“You saw me every day,” Ben points out, his voice thick.

 

“I know, but I missed you anyway.”

 

Ben holds Rey tighter, nudges his face against her hair, filthy as it is. “I missed you too,” he admits as quietly as he can. She smiles against his shoulder, and he knows she heard.

 

“Where's Chewie?” she asks, after a little while.

 

Ben snorts. “Medbay.”

 

“But I thought he wasn't injured!”

 

“He's not.”

 

“Oh.” Suddenly Rey giggles, looking up at Ben. “Someone has a crush.”

 

Ben feels a creeping sense of horror. His ears erupt in flames. “What?”

 

“Chewie,” Rey clarifies. “He fancies Dr. Kalonia, I'm sure of it.”

 

Ben makes a disgusted face for Rey to see. “Chewie is married.”

 

Rey cocks her head, mischief dancing in her eyes. “So that means he can't have a crush?”

 

Ben scowls. “Yes.”

 

“Hmm.” Rey is still smiling faintly, but doesn't say anything else for a few moments. When she does speak, she asks, in a gentle voice, the inevitable question. “Aren't you going to see your mother?”

 

Ben winces and carefully withdraws from her, sitting down on the – now clean – floor of the hold, his back against the wall, arms wrapped around his legs as he draws them into his chest. “I'm waiting.”

 

Rey studies him a moment, with her head tilted, then sits down right next to him, mimicking his position except she curls further into herself, resting her head on her pulled-up knees. “Then I'll wait with you.”

 

Within five minutes, Rey is asleep, half-fallen against Ben's side. Ben waits until her breathing is deep and even, then carefully gathers her into his arms – she's heavier than she was on Takodana, though probably still lighter than a girl of her height should be – and carries her to her bunk, doing his best not to disturb her much-needed slumber. Whatever harm the battle on D'Qar has done to Rey, at least it has served to push her over the edge into the sleep that been eluding her. With a blanket tucked in around her, Ben leaves Rey to her deserved rest, hoping she gets to enjoy it. Wishing he could rest, knowing he won't be able to, no matter how tired he is, until he has faced what – and who – he came here to face.

 

Still feeling gritty and stained with the battle, Ben makes his way to the fresher room to splash some water on his face, rake his fingers through his hair, and shuck off the ruined Resistance shirt and pants. He winces a bit as the shirt peels away from the burn on his side, but they're fresh out of bacta patches, so he couldn't do anything about it even if he wanted to. Instead, he just tugs his old black shirt on and his old trousers too. At least someone – Chewie, probably – had had the decency to launder them while Ben was locked away. The ship feels even colder for some reason, maybe just because he's alone now. Ben wonders where his ratty cloak is, or even that battered old jacket with the ripped seam, the one that smells like his dad. In search of something warm, he heads back out into the main hold.

 

But he is no longer alone there.

 

"Ben," Leia Organa says, very softly. Her voice is huskier than he remembers, whether with grief, or age or both, but he still recognizes it, and tears spring to his eyes at the sound of his name. “You're really here.”

 

Ben squeezes his eyes shut tight, banishing the tears as best he can. He had not expected her, not this soon, and he had not been paying attention, and there was not even a chance to brace himself. His legs feel weak and he tries to lock them in place, keep himself from shaking. “I'm here,” he agrees, hating the deep but tremulous sound of his own voice. He does not turn to face his mother, he does not raise his eyes. All he can tell from his peripheral vision is that she wears a gray dress with flowing sleeves.

 

She lets out a long, shaky breath. “Are you all right?”

 

Ben doesn't understand why, but this sets off a little bomb of resentment in his heart, and old anger flares. _Of course I'm not all right I've never been all right in my entire life and you should know that …_

 

His mother senses his anger. He should have known she would. “I do know, Ben,” she says, still gently, but her voice is stronger than before. “I know.”

 

Ben bites his lip hard, self-punishing. His fingers curl up, jabbing his blunt nails into the soft part of his palms. “Aren't you going to ask me anything of consequence?” he inquires bitterly, his eyes now open but downcast, interrogating the floor. “You're missing a great opportunity to exploit my knowledge of the First Order's inner workings. Very lax of you.”

 

He can feel the flicker of indignation and hurt he's caused her, but Leia hardly misses a beat. "Look at me, Ben.”

 

Fear lances through him. "No," he grates out, his bravado and sarcasm gone.

 

"Dammit, Ben,” his mother says, and his spine straightens. "You're my son, and I haven't seen your face in fifteen years. If nothing else, you owe me this.” Her voice softens, but that note of command doesn't quite leave it. “Please, Ben. This is all I ask of you, the only thing I want. Look at me."

 

Dread makes Ben's heart into a heavy stone, pummeling him from the inside. He has been breathing for the moment that he would see his mother again, and now that the time is here he cannot even meet her eyes. All that he can think about is the last time someone who loved him wanted to see his face. He ruined everything then, he can probably find a way to ruin everything now. He's just so afraid of what his mother will see when she looks at him. Will she see a monster? A murderer? Will she see someone pathetic? Someone brave? Will she see someone worthy of forgiveness? Will she see a broken man? A little boy? Or will she see her son, who somehow is made of all those broken parts?

 

And no matter what she sees, no matter what she says … how will he live with the look in her eyes?

 

 _I will live with it,_ he tells himself, _because I have to._

 

Slowly, he angles his body towards her, but keeps his face turned away at first. He's so, so scared. When he finally does turn his face to hers, his hair is in the way. With a shaking hand, he sweeps it back, and meets his mother's eyes.

 

The familiar stranger in front of him steals his breath. She looks like a queen out of a children's storybook, and yet she's just as at home standing there in the Falcon, with him looking down at her … far down. His mother is _tiny_. He must have forgotten that, but the contradiction is dizzying, because despite her slight frame, she has the power to crush him with a single word, a single look.

 

But she doesn't crush him. She looks at him with an expression he can't name, couldn't hope to define; there's too much shining in her eyes to be contained in a word. His cheeks and his ears are reddening under her close scrutiny, and his eyes are stinging again, and he's so ashamed of everything he is and everything he's done. It's all that he can do not to look away from her. What is that she thinks of him?

 

“You're so grown-up,” she murmurs, and she is breathless too, uncertain too. They have both changed. Her gaze searches him from head to toe, cataloging every feature, each mannerism, trying to make sense of the stranger she gave birth to.

 

Just as intently as she studies him, he studies her. The rich brown of her hair has faded a litle with time, but the crown of braids she has done it in is a familiar style; how many times had he patted that hair with eager hands, laughed with delight when she let it fall down past her waist after a long day, running his small fingers through it like it was gold? Her eyes, brown like his, are surrounded by lines now, but as warm and clear as ever, their light undimmed. And when she looks at him, she smiles. Because of him or in spite of him, who knows, but the smile is _for_ him. Tears are sparkling in Leia's eyes, but she doesn't let them fall.

 

Ben, however, can't help it. His eyes brim over with tears, blurring his vision, dripping from his eyelashes and spilling slow and salty down his cheeks. The quietest of cries ripples through his chest, and by the time it reaches his lips it's just a feeble sigh that speaks not only of pain, but bone-deep exhaustion.

 

His mother's smile fades, her chin trembling, sorrow shadowing her face, and she reaches for him.

 

When her warm fingertips brush his tear-damp cheek, Ben flinches. But he forces himself to be still, not to pull away. His unworthiness, his awfulness, the knowledge that he doesn't deserve an ounce of her kindness ... that isn't the point right now. This quiet moment is for her.

 

His mother frames his face with both her hands, brushing tears away, feeling out the scratch of stubble and the roughness of scar tissue. Ben blinks down desperately at her through the haze of his tears and remembers, like a kick in the stomach, how he used to worship her. How could he have let it come to this?

 

He doesn't allow himself to pull away, even when she tentatively follows the path of the scar across his face. He tries to ignore the way her own face twists in sympathy. But her emotions sweep through him all the same, and he knows he can't hold himself tense and distant forever, he just can't, it's been so long and he's missed her so much and never knew it and all the time, she has been waiting for him, and he can't believe he made her wait so long, can't understand why now, when he's finally here, he can't let himself love her, he doesn't know how ...

 

But his heart knows, even though his head keeps trying to complicate matters. So when his mother softly lays the palm of her hand against the side of his face, he closes his eyes and instinctively leans into her touch.

 

She doesn't say what she's thinking, maybe doesn't even mean for him to know, but the Force is strong between them and he hears it all the same.

 

_You look so much like your father._

 

It's so strange, this lesson he's still learning, about how hurt and healing feel so much the same.

 

“He did what you asked,” Ben says hoarsely. The words are a struggle but he has to say them, he owes it to his father to say them. “He ... he ... he brought me home.”

 

"I knew he'd find a way," his mother says, her voice soft but alive: sorrow mingled with joy and fierce pride. "He always did.” She takes a shaky breath, strokes the side of Ben's face. “And so did you, Ben. You chose to come back. And I'm so happy, and I'm so proud of you ..."

 

“You shouldn't be,” he whispers. He could make a list of all the reasons why, but he can't remember how to speak well enough. “You shouldn't ...”

 

“Hush,” she tells him, kind but insistent. “Let me be proud of you, Ben. You don't have to agree with me, but don't push me away, please.”

 

Pushing her away is the last thing he wants to do, but he doesn't remember how to be close. A stray tear straggles down his face, drips from the end of his nose. His mother reaches up and begins to smooth his messy hair, the repetitive motion soothing him.

 

Memory moves, warm and slow, through his senses. She smells of Alderaanian lilies, like she always used to; he remembers the day his father came home from a long trip with the tall white flowers in tow, rescued from a greenhouse in a star system ages away. She still smooths his hair exactly the same way she did when he was little; curling the backs of her fingers against it, so lightly he could mistake it for a dream. But it's no dream; if even if he couldn't trust his senses he can feel her there through the Force, the closeness, the strength of her feelings surrounding him. For long moments, neither of them speaks or does anything else. She just keeps stroking his hair, and he just keeps letting her, allowing the impossible tenderness of his mother's touch run through his heart, unable to bear thinking of the moment when it will inevitably be taken away, come crashing down, when he cannot pretend to be her innocent child anymore.

 

"Welcome home, sweetheart,” his mother says, love trembling in her voice, in her fingertips, in the very air between them.

 

Her words beat inside him like a pulse. His hands are lax, exhausted fists, stiff arms quaking at his sides. His throat is tight with unshed tears. His mother's touch. His mother's voice. His mother's love. He thought he would never be with her again, and now that he is he doesn't know _how_ to be with her. She has always been so steady, so dedicated to what she thinks is _right_ and nothing about Ben is right. Everything he's ever done has been wrong and everything he _is_ is wrong and he doesn't deserve to be in her presence, let alone in her heart ...

 

But he can feel her distress, the new stirrings of old pain. She's just as afraid of being rejected by him as he is of being rejected by her. But she was brave enough to reach out. To risk more pain for the chance at healing.

 

Gingerly, falteringly, Ben lifts one of hands to cover his mother's where it rests on his hair. He's shocked when he closes his hand around hers and realizes how small hers is by comparison. But when their fingers tangle together he knows no matter how much he's grown, she's the stronger of the two of them, and always will be. In this moment, he's both grateful for his mother's strength and shamed by it. But shame comes more easily to him than gratitude, and he can feel himself trying to shrink away, to hunch and hide, to make himself as small as he once was, as easy to ignore.

 

“Ben,” his mother says, her voice calling him up from the depths of himself before he can fall too far. “Don't be afraid.”

 

He opens his eyes, lashes sticky and wet. This time when his mother looks at him, he forgets about being unworthy, he forgets that he's a monster and a killer and a criminal and a million other awful words. Right now, he is only hers.

 

"Mom?" he whispers. His voice cracks, and he tries again, his lower lip wobbling. “M-Mommy?”

 

She half-laughs, half-sobs. “I'm here, sweetheart.”

 

He knows he's breaking after it's already begun to happen, far beyond his own control now, there's nothing he can do to stop it and he's stumbling, reaching for his mother with shaking hands that miss their mark and clutch needy at her sleeves, and his head falls to her shoulder, and he's still falling, but slower now, she has thrown her arms around him and she's stronger than he looks. She can't hold him up but she slows the descent and they both end up on the floor of the hold, the skirt of Leia's gown crumpled around them, Ben curled up in a ball, fitting as much of himself as he can on his mother's lap. It isn't much. His hands are clinging at the fabric of her sleeves, his face buried in her shoulder, tears still scraping down his cheeks, sobs clogging his throat, forcing him to try and choke words out through them.

 

“Mommy, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm ...” He would spend the rest of his life begging forgiveness, but she doesn't allow it.

 

“It's okay, baby,” she whispers, stroking his hair again. “It's all going to be okay now.”

 

This promise, delivered with such simple surety, wrecks Ben further, wringing more crying from him. He's collapsing like a tired star no longer to bear his own weight, shaking his mother's frame with the intensity of his weeping, but she is not fazed. She holds him through it, even when he's just a puddle of a person, his head in her lap, his face pressed to the softness of her stomach in an effort to muffle his sobs. Once again he's powerless, but he doesn't fight it, doesn't struggle. He's safe in his mother's arms. Maybe this was the place he had been waiting to cry all along. She's warm and soft and strong and he's not afraid anymore.

 

But something is missing. Someone who needs to be here, as much as Ben does. Someone who deserves to be here, no matter how much he might want to disagree.

 

_I want him back._

 

It hurts to call his father, this time. He's tired and nearly spent and has to dig down deep to find the energy. But he does it, the need welling up like blood in a cut and spilling over. Some things have to bleed to be okay.

 

A familiar hand comes to rest on Ben's shoulder, squeezes reassuringly, comforting and strong. The scent of lilies and salt tears mingles with that of engine grease and whiskey.

 

“Hey,” says a gruff voice. Leia's breath catches in her throat.

 

Ben reaches up and takes hold of his father's wrist, tugging him closer. “Dad,” he urges, in a tear-soaked voice. “It's okay.”

 

Still, there is hesitation. Ben lifts his blurry eyes; he can't turn to look at his father, so he gazes at his mother's face instead. At some point as she's been holding him, her tears have spilled over too, though silently, sparkling on her cheeks. Her mouth quivers as she lifts her chin, taking in the sight of the ghost who looks and feels so much like a living man.

 

“Hey,” Han says again, even more weakly than before. His hand is tense on Ben's shoulder. He and Leia both seem to be frozen, as if this is not really happening, as if it is an impossible dream that they had both long since given up on, and now no one is certain what to do.

 

But it isn't a dream. Because if it were a dream, his father would be alive.

 

As awful as this reality is, it _is_. Ben pulls again on his father's hand, insistently, and Han holds back, but not for long. With a sigh, he sinks to his knees with the two of them, Ben now clutching his father's hand to give strength as much as to gain it, Leia stretching out shaking fingers to brush against Han's face. As far as Ben can recall, his parents never had any trouble coming up with things to say to each other, even if those things weren't always pleasant. But now, neither of them says a word. They only hold on to each other, and to their son.

 

There are some wrongs that can never be righted. There are wounds that will never fully heal. But for now, in this place, these truths are suspended. All that matters is that they are together. They are broken and hurt, destroyed and damaged, torn apart and patched back together … but they are a family again, in the only way they can be. Somehow just for now, they make it work: Ben is all cried-out, just breathing tangled up between his living mother and his dead father, both their arms over him, around each other. Han, apparently overcome with emotion, kisses the top of Leia's head, then does the same to Ben.

 

“We did it, kid,” his dad murmurs against his hair. “We're home.”

 

And Ben smiles.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) :) :) :) 
> 
> HELLO FRIENDS it is midnight! the day SWTLJ comes out! i just wanted, very desperately, to post this chapter before i see the movie. not that i have any intention of quitting this story! i do not! as i still love it very much! 
> 
> but i know the new movie will inform stuff about the way this story progresses because there will be fun new things to explore and i don't know about y'all but i'm gonna need time to process all that and for now, i just wanted to get Ben home. 
> 
> it took longer than i thought. it was a lot harder than i thought. 
> 
> in short (too late) i worked much longer and harder on this chapter than i am willing to admit. i hope you all enjoy it, please please please let me know if you do. and have a happy holidays and ENJOY THE NEW STAR WARS MOVIE HOLY SHHHHHH-


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is he just doomed to be all sharp edges, cutting into everyone who loves him?

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

 

He wishes they could stay like this forever.

 

It is not a passive wish. It's an intention, almost a prayer, whispered into a listening stillness. It's a wish like the kind he used to make on falling stars, a long long time ago. But none of those had ever come true, either. So he knows this closeness has to end … but it doesn't have to end yet.

 

Ben and his parents seem to be of a mind in this, because even as he scrunches his eyes shut tighter, wishing, and presses his face into his mother's shoulder, she resumes smoothing his hair and his father presses in and holds them both more closely. At first, Ben doesn't recognize the warm, sleepy feeling flowing through him. It's been such a long time since they were all together, and even longer since they were together in harmony. But something swims to the surface of his now-peaceful mind: the memory his dad had shown him, when his heart was still so wrapped in pain and darkness that everything good felt like a lie. The memory of a baby boy asleep on his father's chest, his mother looking on, and he, in slumber, knowing nothing but their love. But back then, that love had been enough.

 

In this one moment, it's enough once again. He knows this feeling now. _Safe._

 

_**Home.** _

 

For a handful of heartbeats, all the darkness goes away. All that's left of him is a blaze of light, and the truth that is his family.

 

They stay like that, tangled together in a hugging heap on the floor, for what seems like a long time. Not forever, of course, but long enough their hearts are steady and the two who can breathe are breathing free, the memory of who they are together now a reality in the present moment. Something in all of them has been healed.

 

Leia takes a deep breath, steadying herself and her son and husband with her. She sits up straighter and Ben does too, lifting his head from her shoulder with reluctance, blinking the last traces of salt from his swollen eyes. Han, starry-eyed, reaches out and rubs away a teary smudge of makeup from Leia's cheek with the pad of his thumb. Leia's eyes flutter closed as she leans into the soft touch, and Ben quickly scoots away from his parents – not too far, but far enough to distance himself from that kind of intimacy – and he looks at the ceiling until he thinks it's safe to look at them again. His mom's head is resting lightly on his dad's shoulder, his dad's arm around his mom's waist, and it's so sharp, seeing them like that. Maybe it wasn't safe to look yet after all.

 

But then they're both looking at him, and they're both grinning. Ben grimaces at the attention, but he can't really mind it. Han Solo is the first to start to stand, but as he unfolds to his full height he brings Leia up with him, and extends his free hand to Ben to do the same.

 

Rolling his eyes a little, Ben grabs his father's hand, warm and rough as life, and allows himself to be helped to his feet.

 

“I'm going to want to hear about everything that happened,” Leia says, looking from Han to Ben and back. “The whole story.”

 

Ben opens his mouth at the same moment his father does, then they both pause at the same moment, glancing at each other in silent confusion over where to start.

 

Leia's laugh is quick and full, and she looks delighted. “Later, I mean. There's a meeting I have to be at in under an hour, but I wanted to show Ben to his quarters first.”

 

Peace recedes from Ben, pulling back like a wave, without a promise to return. Anxiety takes hold, tightening down his throat, across his shoulders, all the way down his spine. The memory of the detention block is fresh and more unpleasant than he can admit. “I thought I'd stay here, on the Falcon,” he fumbles.

 

The look that comes across his mother's face is guarded. A careful, diplomatic look that puts him on his guard. “The hangar might not be the best place for you to sleep, Ben.”

 

“I'm sure Chewie will want to stay with the ship,” Ben argues. Too bad Chewbacca himself isn't here, then Ben might have someone on his side. Han is looking at the ceiling, remaining quietly neutral _… why?_

 

“That's different,” his mother says, raising her shoulders in a small shrug. “Chewie is … Chewie.”

 

“That's not a reason.” Ben digs in his heels and narrows his eyes at his parents. “If it's okay for Chewie to sleep out here, why isn't it okay for me to?”

 

No words pass between Leia and Han, only a flicker of a glance. But they obviously understand each other, and suddenly, Ben understands them.

 

_It's safe for Chewie to stay out here because no one on this station wants Chewie dead._

 

Ben tightens his fists until his knuckles crack, and has to consciously make himself loosen them. With a handful of exceptions, he doesn't care what anyone on this station thinks of him. They can wish death on him to their hearts' content; he's hard to kill, and he's not afraid of anyone on this station who would be stupid enough to try. But he wishes his mother would just come out and say it.

 

“Ben, you're a grown man,” Leia says heavily. It sounds as difficult for her to admit as it is for Ben to believe. “I'm not going to tell you what to do. But I know that I will personally sleep a little better at night if I know you're just down the hall.”

 

 _Just down the hall._ How many terrible nights – at the temple and in the horror after – how many nights has he woken up, sobbing, screaming, or so numb he can't make a sound at all? No one to turn to for comfort, no compassion to be had for him. No Mom or Dad to come running in, turn the light on, ask if he's okay. But now she could be just down the hall.

 

She can probably feel him wavering. Ben bites his lip and looks at the floor in a useless effort at hiding his feelings. Or even understanding them, himself. Why is he still resisting?

 

“It's not a big room,” his mother continues, her voice cutting precisely into his conflict, “and you'll have to share the fresher with the room on the other side. I already put your things in there, but I suppose they could be moved if you're really set on it.”

 

“Things?” Ben's unable to help his curiosity. He doesn't know what his mother could be talking about. The only material item Kylo Ren owned – Darth Vader's mangled helmet – was left behind on the Finalizer. All Ben Solo has are the clothes on his back, and the lightsaber on his belt. “I don't have any things.”

 

“Yes, you do. I saved your things from our old apartment,” she says lightly, brushing over the bruise of the past. “And I had some new clothes sent up.” She looks him over, tilting her head. “I just hope they fit. You're so tall!” She says it like it's an accomplishment of some sort, and Ben blushes, consternation mingled with pleasure.

 

“I just don't …” He looks around him, realizing this junky old freighter is the only place he's felt at home since his parents left him on Yavin all those years ago. His comfort zone doesn't really extend beyond the Falcon's hull. Any excursions into the larger body of the Resistance space station are going to feel like forays into enemy territory, regardless of his mother's intentions. “I just don't know, Mom ...”

 

“It's a long way for me to walk to come see you,” his mother points out, lifting her eyebrows.

 

This is sensible and practical, so Ben tries to focus on that. Of course there is that difficult part of him that wants to insist on staying on the Falcon, isolating himself and forcing anyone who wants to see him to prove it by moving across the distance … but he pushes that selfish impulse down. Now there's only one consideration preventing from agreeing to his mother's wishes. But she's the most important one. He will go where she goes, or stay where she stays. He will not let her be alone.

 

“What about Rey?” he asks.

 

“What about me?” Rey mumbles, emerging from her cabin and rubbing her eyes. Ben winces inwardly, not wanting to think that he's in any way responsible for waking Rey up.

 

“Rey has a room prepared for her as well, if she wants it,” Leia replies, answering both of them. Her eyes are warm when she looks at Rey. A mother's smile, a mother's eyes. Ben had grown up sick of sharing his mom with the galaxy, but he finds he doesn't mind sharing her with Rey.

 

Rey blinks in surprise, . “I … I would love that!”

 

“Hey, Rey,” Han says, throwing his arm in a sweeping gesture. “Come over here, you.”

 

Beaming in a puzzled way, Rey does, only to be caught up by Han's arm and pulled into a group hug along with Leia and Ben. She ends up kind of squished against Ben's chest, giggling. The blaster burn on his side gives a twinge, but he's too distracted by the warmth he's surrounded by to give it more than a passing thought.

 

“Is it settled, then?” Leia asks, tilting her head back to look at Ben.

 

“Yeah,” Ben quietly replies. “It's settled.”

 

Leia sends Ben and Rey to gather what they need from their cabins before they go. Ben doesn't really have anything to gather, except his ragged old cloak. He rolls it into a bundle and looks around the small cabin with a funny feeling, not knowing when he will lay his head down in this place again. _But I will,_ he tells himself. _I have to believe that I will._

 

Rey takes a bit longer, emerging slightly breathless with her old metal staff strapped to her back and a satchel thrown over her shoulder. “Ready,” she says to Leia, her eyes bright. But she pauses a few seconds later, like her feet are stuck to the floor, and her eyes dim with concern. “Should we really leave the Falcon? There's more repairs to do, and Chewie ...”

 

“There's always more repairs to do, and Chewie can handle it,” Han says sternly from where he's lingering, leaning in the nearest doorway. “You kids need a break. If he's got a problem, he can talk to me.”

 

Ben looks sharply at his father. “You're not coming?”

 

Han looks more casual than before, as if nothing could possibly bother him. Ben knows this means something is bothering him. “Well, kid, someone's gotta stay with the ship until Chewie gets back. And you and your mom … you need some time together.”

 

Ben thought his mind was made up, but now he's hesitant again, dragging his feet. The truth is, he'd hoped that his father would serve as a buffer between him and his mother. Never would he have imagined he'd feel more comfortable with his dad than his mom, but nothing has ever really gone as he expected it. Furthermore, he doesn't want to leave his dad here, even if he wants to be left.

 

“But, Dad ...” Ben doesn't know what to say next.

 

“Don't worry, kid …” – the ghost's rough voice softens, his hazel eyes looking misty – “you need me, you know where to find me.”

 

Ben's arguing impulses want to kick in again, but there's a tugging in his heart that tells him he's making this worse than it has to be. His father didn't help him get this far just so he could hide. “And you know where to find me,” he says.

 

“You bet. You ain't gettin' rid of me that easy, kid.”

 

“I've given up on ever getting rid of you,” Ben mutters. It comes out sounding childish, but his father laughs out loud, throwing his head back, so he knows Han Solo knows what he meant. And his mom and Rey share small smiles, so they must understand too.

 

Even so, at the bottom of the ramp, Ben turns to look back at his dad. Han Solo stands in the Millennium Falcon's doorway, watching the three of them go. Meeting his son's eyes, he gives a lopsided smile, and a firm, encouraging nod.

 

Reluctantly Ben nods back, squares his shoulders, and turns away.

 

_\- - -_

 

The room his mother shows him to is small, containing one metal-framed bunk and one narrow set of drawers with a shelf above, but Ben can't find much fault with it. It's tall enough for him to stand up in, and he doesn't have to share it. _Or maybe it's just that no one wants to share sleeping quarters with you,_ he thinks nastily. It doesn't sting much, despite his best efforts.

 

“The environmental controls are here,” his mother says, showing him a panel near the door. “And here's the comm. If you ever need to reach me, for any reason, at any time, just press this button. And I'll be here as fast as I can. Okay?”

 

There's something stressed about her voice, like she thinks he's not listening. Or maybe just not hearing what she's trying to say. He is, though.

 

“Okay,” he agrees, meeting her eyes long enough to let her know he understands. Her face relaxes, showing the smile lines framing her mouth and eyes. Ben lets his own face relax in turn, though he can't quite smile, and he has to look away first, find something else to fix his attention on. His first step into the room had put him close to the bed. The blanket folded at the end of it … he's sure that's not standard Resistance issue. Most it is bright blue, faded in places. But when he picks it up, and holds it in his hands, it's still as soft as he remembers. And when he raises it to his face, discreetly trying to feel the softness against his cheek, it still holds the scent of a place that's gone.

 

Ben can feel his mother's gaze on him, and he looks back at her, clutching the blanket in embarrassment. But her eyes are soft on him, her smile small but fond.

 

“You used to wrap that around your shoulders and run around pretending it was a cape,” she recalls.

 

“I don't suppose I can do that now,” Ben remarks, stretching the blanket out as far as it will go.

 

His mother laughs. “Maybe not.” It seems like the air in the room is warmer after the trickle of her laughter. Ben feels warmer, a little more at ease. He folds the blanket into a square and sets it on the flat pillow at the head of the bed. He can still feel his mother watching him, and he turns to face her again, and she looks down, almost as if she's embarrassed.

 

“I'm sorry,” she murmurs, a rueful note in her voice, her hands smoothing the folds of her skirt in a rare show of nerves.

 

Ben is startled. “What for?”

 

Leia's mouth tilts wryly, but there's something sad in the depths of her eyes. “For staring at you. And I apologize in advance for all the times you're going to catch me doing it again. I've imagined you so many times over the years: what you'd be like. How you'd be different, how you'd be the same … I thought I'd gone through every possible scenario, but it turns out all the daydreaming in the world can't compare to the reality of having you back.”

 

Ben's throat feels tight again, and when he speaks his voice is strained. “Hopefully you're not too disappointed.”

 

Leia draws up in sudden indignation, frowning. “Of course I'm not. Are you?”

 

He'd forgotten what it was like to be on the receiving end of that look. Immediately, he swallows his pride and drops his shoulders, sighing. “No,” he says, very quietly.

 

“If it bothers you,” his mother says, just as quietly, “I'll try to stop.”

 

“Don't,” Ben says after a moment. “It's fine. I … I don't mind.” It's just strange … to be _seen_ by her, after all this time of believing he was nothing in her eyes. So strange that she wants to look at him, to keep looking at him, after all these years of him being coldly, brokenly certain that she had turned away for good. He can't cling to that lie anymore. It feels like a crushing weight has been removed from his heart, which now beats a little freer, a little fuller.

 

“Did you see the chest?” Leia gestures, her sleeve fluttering in the air, and Ben's gaze falls on the carved wooden box just under the bunk. An Alderaanian keepsake chest.

 

Ben crouches and pulls the chest out into view, opening the lid because he knows his mother wants him to and because he wants the distraction. The items inside are arranged with care, and so he removes them carefully, one at a time.

 

A plush bantha, with fur as soft as air ... except for one tacky patch on the bantha's side, where _someone_ spilled pudding once. A handful of intricately carved wooden figures Chewie had made, armed with tiny lightsabers in their hands. Ben sifts through the ashes of his childhood with an ever-growing lump in his throat. A TIE fighter model with a dented wing. Several framed holo images of his family … he makes his eyes skip over those, for now. A cup with handles and a lid, a baby's cup, emblazoned with patterns of shooting stars in blue and gold. An Ewok's small wooden club.

 

Ben swallows hard. These were all things he used to treasure, but they feel odd and small in his hands, like they belong to somebody else. He isn't alone in this room after all; he's haunted by the missing years of his life. It's like Ben Solo ceased to exist around the age of ten and now he's come back to find the shaking foundations of the life he left behind, waiting for him to step back into it, but he doesn't fit. He can almost see his younger self sitting on the edge of the bunk, glaring up at him, muttering "Don't touch my stuff."

 

Ben shoves the boy's memory aside and sits down on the bed. It creaks ominously under his weight, but doesn't give. Yet. It isn't until he's sat down that he realizes he's holding the stuffed bantha, his fingers seeking out the rough patch on its side, pushing through the fur and then back, through and then back, in a repetitive gesture.

 

His mother sits down next to him, close but not touching, folding her hands in her lap. “You might not want these old things anymore,” she says reflectively. “I can put them back into storage if you want, or we could give them away ...”

 

Ben clutches the bantha tighter. “No,” he blurts, too quickly, and his cheeks flood with heat. “I mean,” he amends, stealing a sideways glance at his mom, “that's not necessary.”

 

“All right,” she says serenely, and winks at him.

 

For a few moments, they're just quiet together, sitting there. Ben turns the bantha over in his hands and his mother watches him do it.

 

“What happens now?” It's not a question he wants to ask, but he has to know the answer.

 

“Well, I have a meeting, but it won't last long,” she says.

 

“That's not what I mean ...”

 

“What do you mean, sweetheart?”

 

He makes himself meet her eyes, though it's hard for him. She is waiting patiently, listening even before he speaks.

 

“I want to be useful,” he softly says. More than that, he needs it. “Tell me how to be useful.”

 

“Ben, don't you think you should rest?”

 

She feels like she has to say that, because she's his mother, and maybe part of her really means it. Or means to mean it. But she can't possibly, not when she's the leader of a ragtag army on the run and he's steeped in inside enemy information.

 

“The detention cell was restful enough.”

 

His mother flinches.

 

Ben's heart twists. He hadn't been trying to hurt her then, had he? All he'd done was tell the truth, just darkly. Is he just doomed to be all sharp edges, cutting into everyone who loves him?

 

Before he can form even the clumsiest of apologies, his mother speaks again, and words are drenched in pain. “You have every right to be angry with me.”

 

Ben's shocked. “I do?”

 

“Understanding something doesn't always make it easy to accept,” Leia murmurs. “Even though I knew it was the safest place for you, I still hated the thought of ordering you locked up. I knew you would be climbing the walls within a day. But I'd rather have you upset with me than hurt by anyone else.”

 

“I've done things I hate too,” Ben whispers.

 

His mother looks at him a moment longer, hesitating.

 

A strange, glum calm descends over Ben. “It's okay,” he says softly. “You can ask me.”

 

“That's all we need to do,” she tells him, her gaze intense, pressing understanding on him. “Ask you some questions. But if you need some time to think …”

 

“No,” Ben says, as his hands curl into fists on his lap. “No, I want … I want to get it over with.” Better than sitting in this room doing nothing, staring at the remnants of his ruined childhood. In the Resistance's interrogation chamber, he might be a coward and a turncoat, but at least he'll be of use to someone. Here he'd just be as sad and pointless as he feels.

 

“Only if you're sure.”

 

“Yes,” he replies, pushing all the conviction he can muster into that one word.

 

“I'll be there with you,” his mother assures him. “The whole time.”

 

Ben nods, but he can't speak. He feels cold, hollow. So many times he felt like that and hid it, watched his mother walk out the door on her way to more important things, and sat in his silence with the shadows writhing and growing inside his head and his heart. He tries to hide it again, but this time, it doesn't work. This time, she sees him.

 

“Ben,” Leia says in a low voice. She reaches out and lays her warm hand over his, making him stop his restless movements. “Something's wrong. Tell me.”

 

And still, his impulse is to hide when all he wants is to be seen. “It's nothing.”

 

“It's something, I think.” She waits for him to speak. When he doesn't, she squeezes his hand. “Ben, please?”

 

“I'm afraid.” He hadn't wanted to admit it, but now it's out, a small and pathetic sentiment which, if he had ever dared to express such a thing to Snoke, would have ended with him screaming on the ground as the Dark Side flowed maliciously through his body and his mind, giving him a lesson in what it meant to really be afraid.

 

 _It was what you deserved,_ he berates himself, _and it's what you deserve now. Weakling. Coward. Traitor – …_

 

“Sweetheart,” his mom says, a catch in her voice. “What are you afraid of? Do you think I would let anyone here hurt you?”

 

Ben shakes his head. “It's not that.” Pain is something he would welcome and he's angry that it's being denied him. “It's not something I'm afraid of. I'm just … afraid. It's what I am. Almost all the time. Afraid.” And he loathes himself for it.

 

She doesn't lie to him. She doesn't tell him there's nothing for him to be afraid of.

 

“What can I do?” She sounds calm, but he can feel her worry charging the air between them. “Tell me what I can do, Ben.”

 

She had taken him back, welcomed him home after everything. That should be enough to cast all of his fears and misgivings, put all of his doubts to rest. _Why is it not enough?_ How can he still be so selfish and ungrateful, so twisted-up inside?

 

His mother is still waiting for an answer. Ben doesn't have one to give her. He doesn't have one to give himself. At least, not anything in the form of words. Instead, in silent need, he turns his shaking hand to hold hers. Her warm fingers don't hesitate a moment in clinging to his, and she lifts his hand and presses a kiss to his bruised knuckles. Without a word, she allows him to be what he is: broken, ugly and damaged. But still hers.

 

It's a small thing, but it slows the surging tide of shame that had been choking him. “Let me do it,” he hears himself saying, and though his words are rough and quiet, he means them. “Let me help you.”

 

His mother looks for a long time into his eyes, searching for what, he doesn't know. But she seems to find something familiar, something she recognizes. Something she trusts. Once more she's resolved, and there's a fierce brightness around her, and she squeezes his hand with a strength he can only envy.

 

“Brave boy,” she names him fondly.

 

A choked noise escapes him. “I just told you I'm afraid.”

 

To his surprise, she smiles at him. “Exactly.”

 

\- - -

 

Leia has departed for her meeting, and Ben is sitting cross-legged on his bunk, failing to meditate, with the toy bantha in his lap. A series of taps on the door make him startle.

 

“Ben?” Rey's voice is muffled. “Can I come in?”

 

“Just a second,” Ben replies hurriedly, flinging the bantha into the keepsake chest and Force-slamming the lid. But it's wedged slightly open by a tuft of toy-bantha fur, so he Force-shoves the chest under the bed. “Come in.”

 

The door whooshes open, and Rey looks around cautiously before stepping in. observing her surroundings while Ben is observing her. She's brushed her hair and pulled the top of it back while leaving the rest loose around her shoulders, and she's changed into a clean outfit, though – Ben is gratified to notice – she isn't wearing anything with the Resistance symbol on it. Her exhaustion is less visible, put aside for the moment by a brief rest and the excitement of the space station. “How do you like your room?” she asks him.

 

“It's fine. Yours?”

 

She nods. “It's quite nice, actually. Of course, I'd rather have stayed on the Falcon, but I understand why that's not practical for now.” She sighs and stretches, wincing as a muscle in her back pops. Ben winces too.

 

“Oh!” Rey points excitedly to the blue blanket on Ben's pillow. “I've seen that before! In your memories.”

 

Ben ducks his head in embarrassment. “My mother saved it.” She'd saved a lot more than he'd expected her to. He just wishes, futilely, that he had saved more of himself to appreciate it.

 

Rey smiles, but there's a sadness to it, a bluish feeling around her. As far as she knows, no one had saved anything of hers, from when she was a baby. No one had waited for her or come looking for her. No one was holding her treasured in their memories. No one was bearing the agony of losing her. No one who held her as a baby would ever hold her again. No one cared.

 

Ben wants to say something, but Rey speaks before he can. “Were you meditating?” He can feel that's she's closed a door in her mind, shoved her past into it. She wants a distraction, and maybe he can provide one.

 

“Not successfully,” he admits.

 

“Would I mind if I joined you and we tried again?”

 

Ben moves over to make room for her on the bed, and Rey hops up to sit across from him and arranges her legs so that her knees are touching his. Ben stiffens for a moment, but makes himself relax. Takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes. Assumes that Rey has also closed hers. Breathe. In and out, in and out, in and …

 

“I never said thank you,” Rey suddenly says.

 

Ben opens his eyes and finds her looking at him with a troubled face. “For what?” he asks softly.

 

“For the battle. For having my back.”

 

“You don't need to thank me.” He would have had her back whether she wanted him to or not. If anything … “I should be thanking you.”

 

She smiles at that, but shyly, like she's trying to tamp it down. “The thing is … I'm afraid maybe when we talked about it, after, that I made it seem like all of it was bad. But …” Rey pauses. “I liked fighting with _you_ , together. It felt right.”

 

“It did,” Ben agrees, his voice even softer than before. He's not willing to admit just how right, or how much it astounds him, thrills him, that Rey protects him and is willing – sometimes – to let him protect her.

 

Rey's smile deepens, and her eyes shine “For the first time in my life,” she says, “I feel like I'm where I'm supposed to be.” There's wonder in her voice, like she's just realized this herself. And he knows how much that means to her. He wishes he could feel the same certainty, the same clarity, the same relief. But he can't take the feelings he has around her and apply them to the whole Resistance.

 

So maybe he doesn't feel like he's where he's meant to be … but he might be closer to that place than he has ever been before.

 

They try to meditate together for a few more minutes, but it's no use. And for once Rey isn't the one shifting and fidgeting and opening her eyes every few seconds.

 

“I don't think this happening,” she observes, opening one eye to peek at him. He's already given up, hunching in on himself and putting his chin in his hands.

 

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I'm thinking too hard.”

 

“What about?”

 

“My interrogation,” he says, looking up at her with a brittle smile.

 

Rey's brows pull together, her whole expression changing, from soft and open to sharp and fierce. “That's happening today? I'll go with you ...”

 

“No,” Ben says, more harshly than he means to. He doesn't want her there, doesn't want her watching him passively handing out classified information when she knows he used to be one who ripped it out of people's minds on Snoke's orders …

 

But Rey's not daunted. “I don't want them to hurt you.”

 

 _So that's what it is?_ “Rey, they won't. I wish they would.”

 

“And I wish you wouldn't say things like that.” There's a heat in Rey's eyes, in her voice, and her hands are curling into fists. “It's not funny.”

 

“It wasn't meant to be.” Ben can see from the look on Rey's face that she's not mollified. Her scrunchy-frowning face is one he knows by now; it's directed at him often enough. It's anger wedded to worry, with just the sharpest narrowest hint of sadness, and he knows he's let her down. He bites his lip and tries again. “It's irrelevant.”

 

To his surprise, Rey flares up instead of cooling down, and he feels a low heat starting in him to match hers. “It is _not_ irrelevant, you ...”

 

He doesn't get to find out what epithet she would have bestowed on him, because there's another knock at the door.

 

“Come in,” he says, looking into Rey's angry eyes. She looks back at him, her frown deepening.

 

Luke Skywalker steps into his nephew's room, dressed in cleaner, lighter robes than the ones he arrived in. He's trimmed his hair and his beard, and looks much younger than before and lot less like a sad hobo. Ben doesn't remark on this, deciding to leave the wisecracks to his father.

 

“I thought I'd find you two together,” Luke says with a twinkle in his eye. “Are you busy?”

 

“No,” Ben says, his face and ears igniting.

 

“But Ben will be soon,” Rey says shortly, angling her body away from Ben's and folding her arms. “He has to go in for questioning.” He words are all clipped and curt, her shoulders bunched up, her irritation worn like an armor that protects no one.

 

Maybe Luke catches the brief pleading look in Ben's eyes, or maybe he just doesn't want to get involved in whatever little drama he's walked into. He blinks once, takes the information in stride and moves on with it, and for that, Ben is grateful.

 

“Well,” Luke says, “when you're finished there, come and see me. I've got something I've been wanting to show the both of you.”

 

Rey's spine straightens out and her shoulders drop slightly, but she hasn't let go of her anger so quickly. There's an almost surly note of reluctance in her voice when she asks “What is it?”

 

Luke smiles mysteriously. “It's a surprise.”

 

“Can we have a hint?” Rey sounds grumpy.

 

“Nope,” Luke replies. And with a widening of the mysterious smile, he tosses his robe and exits as suddenly as he entered.

 

When Luke's gone, Ben and Rey exchange glances.

 

“What do you think it is?” Rey's eyes are inquisitive, but reluctant. She's still holding herself at a distance, but she did speak to him first, that has to mean something …

 

“I have no idea.” His mind is too crowded to allow him to speculate on the matter. “Are you still mad at me?”

 

Her eyes widen slightly as she looks up at him, and she draws up in a moment of tension before she just sighs and releases it all. “It's not about being mad, Ben! I care about you, and you keep reminding me that don't care about yourself. That isn't easy.” She sucks in a breath like she's bracing for a strike, but it turns out the strike is meant for him. “I hope you don't talk like that in front of your mother.”

 

Ben's eyes sting. “You don't understand,” he whispers.

 

“Then make me understand!”

 

She shouts it like a challenge, and he's too weak and broken and too stupidly stubborn to resist it. The words pour out of him like poison, but he has to say them or else he'll still be sick. “I won't talk like that in front of my mother. My father doesn't want to hear it. Now you tell me you don't want to hear it, either. But it's the truth, Rey. I thought you knew. Am I supposed to lie? Is that it? Do you want me to smile and pretend I'm fine when I'm not? Do you really think that if I act like I don't need the pain I'll just stop needing it? Do you want to me to act like torture isn't exactly what I ought to be getting from these people? Do you think I'm happy that I'm reduced to hiding in my mother's skirts? Do you ...” He stops, his throat aching, realizing he'd been on the verge of shouting. He shakes, trying to shove all the ugliness back inside of himself, but it's too late, it's leaking out through the cracks in his soul. She already knows how horrible he is, and maybe this will be the thing that makes her decide she's had enough, makes her walk away …

 

She takes his face in her hands, makes him look at her through his blurring eyes. She's stricken at the things he's saying, but she's still listening. She's still letting him speak these things that are true, even though they make her miserable. “Of course I don't want you to lie,” she murmurs, her fingertips trembling on his face, his jaw, his neck. The distance between them vanishes as she presses her forehead to his. “But I don't want you to hurt yourself, either.”

 

He starts to protest that he hasn't, not since the last time she knows about, but the untreated blaster wound on his side throbs out his falsehood. “I'm sorry,” he manages to say, his voice torn and weak. “I'm sorry, Rey.”

 

“I know.” The pad of her thumb smooths along his cheek, and her breath rushes warm over his skin. “I know.”

 

They breathe together for a moment, until their breathing slows. Ben knows he should be ashamed of himself, but he's too tired to care. Rey sits back, gently disentangling herself from him, tucking a fallen strand of hair behind her ear.

 

“You told me once that I could tell you anything,” she says slowly, thoughtfully. “No matter how awful it was. That means you can tell me anything, too. So you see? It's not that I don't want you to be honest with me. It's just that when you hurt … I hurt too.”

 

That's a lot of pain for two people to bear. But at least they aren't bearing it alone.

 

“You're sure that you don't want me to come with you?” she asks him, gentle now. “You're sure there's nothing I can do to help?”

 

His eyes flick up to meet hers, so steady, so warm, so _kind_.

 

Ben removes the lightsaber from his belt and holds it out to her. Rey looks at him, perplexed.

 

“I don't want to give them another reason to distrust me,” he explains, “and I don't want to leave it here, just in case ...” Just in case of what, he doesn't know, only that he doesn't intend to let anyone take his weapon from him again; if he's going to be disarmed it will be by his own choice. And it's one less thing for him to hurt himself with. “Will you hold it for me, until after?”

 

“Of course,” Rey says, and Ben passes his saber into her hands, their fingers brushing, touching in silent acceptance. For the first time, Ben feels better without the lightsaber, not worse. Rey turns it over in her hands, touching one of the crossguard vents with a thoughtful expression, but she doesn't voice her thoughts aloud.

 

“You should go,” Ben says. “They'll be coming for me soon.”

 

“I can stay.” Rey doesn't hesitate to offer, as he knew she would, but Ben shakes his head.

 

“Go get some food. I'll be fine.”

 

A grin breaks across Rey's face. “How'd you know I was hungry?”

 

“I sensed it.”

 

“All right.” Rey stands up and stretches again, tucking Ben's saber into her belt for safekeeping. “I'll see you soon. Don't forget Master Luke has a surprise for us.”

 

“How could I forget?” Ben says sardonically.

 

Rey's smile suddenly transforms into a startlingly accurate imitation of Luke's, and she tosses an imaginary cape as she heads for the door, and leaves Ben laughing.

 

\- - -

 

Ben had not even had a chance to wonder who he's going to be sharing the fresher with, but he learns when he opens the door and steps in to find Finn in front of the mirror, smiling toothily at his own reflection.

 

 _What the …_ Ben pauses, and Finn jumps, his strange false smile falling into a sheepish one. He stuffs his hands into his pockets awkwardly.

 

“Um, so, hey,” Finn says.

 

Ben studies him. He's gotten cleaned up and changed clothes; the unsightly, mangled leather jacket is not present now. Instead Finn wears a crisp olive green uniform with the Resistance symbol prominently displayed over his heart. There's a nervous energy about him, a discomfort. “Hey,” Ben cautiously replies.

 

Neither of them speaks for a moment. Then Ben's curiosity gets the better of him. “The stormtrooper, from the Falcon. How is he?”

 

“He's gonna be okay,” Finn says, relief flowing from him as he warms to his subject. “Doctor Kalonia says that he probably would have gone into shock if you hadn't put him under. But he got help in time. He hasn't said anything yet, and he's sleeping now. I'm gonna go check on him later, after I'm done with this.” He tugs at the high collar of his uniform, grimacing.

 

“Done with what?”

 

“Oh, yeah.” Finn stops fussing with the collar and tugs at the jacket, trying to straighten it. “They asked me to be in some propaganda holos. That's why I was checking myself out when you walked in here. You know, just in case you were wondering.”

 

Ben shrugs to avoid admitting that he was, in fact, wondering. _Propaganda holos …_ He hopes that's not the next step in their plans for him. He'd rather go back into detention than have his likeness spread across the galaxy as a recruitment tool. Or for any reason, really.

 

 _Oh, don't flatter yourself,_ his mind chides him. _No one wants to look at you._

 

“I feel kinda weird about it,” Finn is saying now, apparently compelled to fill all silences. “I mean, I'm just some guy, you know? But then, it's not really about me. It's about reaching people, and if they think it can help, then ...” He trails off, which is fine, because Ben doesn't really know what to say or why he's even still standing there. Yesterday Finn had made less-than-veiled hypothetical threats against Ben's life, now he's a font of casual conversation?

 

“I can come back later if you need the mirror,” Ben says finally.

 

“No, no, I'm good.” Finn steps back, making room for Ben to use the mirror. “You go ahead. So you're on your way to ...”

 

“Spill my guts to the Resistance? Yes. Insert your traitor jokes here.” Ben is bitter.

 

There's a moment of very awkward silence and then Finn blurts “You're doing the right thing.”

 

Ben just looks at him, trying to figure out if he's being mocked. But Finn's face is earnest, and there's a dark undercurrent in his eyes that Ben knows well enough. It's anger, or the memory of it, the desire for retribution simmering in his heart.

 

“You think so?”

 

Finn nods. “Hell yeah, I do. They turn us into weapons, they don't get to cry about it when we cut them. The First Order has to be stopped, and there's none better to help stop it than those who know exactly what they're capable of.” He takes a breath, looks a little sheepish about his impassioned speech. “I wanted to run away, at first. But eventually I realized that if someone doesn't try and stop them, there won't be anywhere left in the galaxy to run to.”

 

Ben knows this is true. Snoke's reach is already more extensive than anyone knows, and his appetite for power will never be sated as long as he lives. _And he's already lived far past his expiration date._

 

“They screwed us,” Finn is saying now, with some bitterness of his own, “so it's only fair that we screw them right back.”

 

“Us?” Ben asks cautiously, the taste of the word as yet unfamiliar.

 

“Rey told me,” Finn says, “about Snoke. What he did to you.”

 

He says it quietly; knowing it's a private thing. There is no judgment or disgust in Finn's voice, but Ben feels disgraced and dirty anyway. He knew Rey would tell Finn whatever he needed in order to understand, and Snoke was essential to the story; he isn't upset by that. He's not upset at anyone but himself. Which is ironic, since he had never asked for Snoke to crawl inside his mind and whisper words of darkness.

 

“I don't want your pity,” Ben mutters, sullen in his shame. “No more than you want mine.”

 

Finn pauses. “Wasn't offering it,” he says lightly. “Just saying.”

 

And Ben only feels worse, because he's not supposed to do this. Rey doesn't want him to antagonize Finn, for one thing, but even if that weren't a factor, Ben doesn't like the way it makes him feel. Now he fumbles for a way to make it right.

 

“Your sentiments are appreciated, Captain,” he says. Stilted, formal, but true enough.

 

Finn's eyes widen a bit, and then he grins a small grin, gives Ben a jaunty salute, and heads off to do hero things.

 

\- - -

 

Leia looks at Ben for a long time when he opens the door. He tries not to shrink from her gaze, and succeeds, but he can't manage to return her smile, even though it's laced with patience, with understanding. He has to make his face a mask right now.

 

“Ready?” she asks.

 

_No._

 

But Ben nods, and follows where General Organa leads him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the ben solo pain train is careening down the tracks with no sign of stopping!!!


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he was born to be a weapon, then it's only right he should be wielded by the one who forged him.

The room his mother brings him to is nothing like the darkened interrogation chambers on Star Destroyers where Kylo Ren once honed his craft. It's small and brightly lit, with one chair at one table, and a long mirror lining the far wall. No, not really a mirror … a window, though he can't see through it. There are people gathered in the room on the other side, and they can see him.

 

Ben sits down at his mother's gesture, thought it takes effort to make his knees bend. The chair, he notices, sports no restraints. Hell, someone even set out a canteen of water on the table. Ben decides immediately that he's not going to touch it. He will take nothing from these people. He will give them what they want, and then he will slink away and try to forget about the whole thing, if he can.

 

A small airborne bot floats in and under Leia's close observance, wires Ben's left hand to a machine that reads his life signs as a basis for truth. This, his mother tells him, is standard procedure, and yet Ben feels certain that in his case, it's a hollow formality. Most of the people waiting on the other side of that window aren't going to believe a word of his testimony, no matter how steady his heartbeat is. If any of the Resistance leaders do lend a bit of credence to his words, it's probably out of devotion to his mother. Ben doesn't much like either of those options.

 

If there were any justice in the galaxy, there'd be someone here like him. Someone to use him as badly as he's used others in war, someone who can do what he used to do: dig into someone's mind and rip out the information they need. He wishes there was someone here like that, but he's out of luck, because monsters aren't welcome in the Resistance. _He_ is not welcome. If he weren't their precious General's son, everything would be different, and perversely, he would like that. If they fought him for the information, hurt him for it, that would be fair. But no, he's just going to _tell_ them, just going to open his big stupid mouth and spit up every secret he can recall from his years in Snoke's shadow. The thought makes him feel sick.

 

It's not that he doubts what Finn said earlier … this _is_ the right thing. Anything that can hurt Snoke's cause, even in the smallest way, is right in Ben's eyes. It's the right thing, but the wrong way. A daydream blooms like a bruise in his mind, a daydream where he rises up and fights, making it necessary for them to subdue him, hurt him, make them pay for the intelligence with violence, bleed it out of him, get their hands dirty …

 

… but then, Ben thinks of Rey: wrathful in her protectiveness, pained by his pain. The daydream sours, washed out by a wave of remorse. No, he won't cause any trouble here. Not for his own sake, but for the sake of the few people who – for some mad reason – care about him.

 

“I'll be just on the other side of the window,” says Leia. Under the table, she takes his free hand and squeezes it, and Ben squeezes back. In their unspoken understanding, she does not try to stay. Somehow his mother knows what he needs, how pathetic he feels and does not want to seem. She nods to him, resolute as he can only dream of being, and lets his fingers go. He can sense her there, after she leaves, behind that window, with the others. They are cold and dim and indistinct, but she is a light in their midst. Still, the darkness surrounds him.

 

The questioner's voice is dry and brisk. “State your legal name for the record.”

 

Ben's teeth are on edge, his whole body tensed up so tight it almost hurts. He hates this: sitting here and feeling the weight of their stares, knowing himself being sized up without able to size them up in return, and all of it accompanied by the dull thump of his heart echoing in the background.

 

He speaks as clearly as he can. “My name is Ben Organa Solo.”

 

“But most of the galaxy knows you under an assumed name. Kylo Ren. Is that correct?”

 

Beneath the table, Ben's free hand knots into a fist. “Yes.”

 

“That was the name you went by while in the service of the being who calls himself Supreme Leader Snoke?”

 

Why are they only asking irrelevant questions they already know the answers to? Is it something about measuring the truthfulness of his responses? “Yes.”

 

“For how long did you serve the First Order?” The question is asked in a blank, businesslike tone, but Ben feels sure he can read contempt beneath the surface.

 

“I don't know.”

 

A brief pause. “You don't know.” There is definitely a sour edge to the voice now. Ben keeps his gaze on the metallic surface of the table; he won't give them the satisfaction of seeing his discomfort.

 

_As if they don't already._

 

“I don't know,” Ben repeats, more loudly, flicking a quick glance at the mirrored glass. “I can't remember.”

 

He's telling the truth, as he lived it. The first few years after the destruction of the Jedi and his flight into the darkness, he had been kept in the shadows, sometimes with the Knights of Ren, sometimes with his master, often alone. Very often alone. He doesn't know where his instruction in the Dark Side began to bleed into the First Order missions, where it became more than he had signed up for. All those years are blurred together in a whirl of guilt and agony; he can't untangle the memories; he's not sure any good would come of trying.

 

Their stupid bio-readings must confirm his words, because the questioner moves on. “What was your rank within the First Order?”

 

Ben's mouth is starting to dry out; he averts his eyes from the canteen. “I had no official rank.”

 

“Then how did you operate within the First Order hierarchy?”

 

“I didn't,” Ben replies shortly. “My orders came directly from the Supreme Leader.” Ben feels his skin creeping, the mention of Snoke like blood on his tongue. “I went where he sent me and did as he told me.”

 

“Until recently,” a different voice pitches in, pitched high with curiosity. “You defected, yes?”

 

Technically, he had. But that makes it sound so political, and everything about his apprenticeship with Snoke had been personal, especially its severance. Just the same, he nods.

 

“A verbal response is required, Mister Solo.” The first voice again, aggravated.

 

“Yes,” Ben says, looking up sharply. His reflection in the mirrored glass is all angles, defensive. “Yes, I defected.”

 

“What was your reason for this defection?”

 

It shouldn't surprise him that they asked that. Of course they'd want to have his motives – at least his stated motives – on record. But it throws him anyway, because what answer can he give? He's not here to beg their forgiveness or ask their understanding, just to give them hard facts. His reasons are his own and they will stay that way. So the answer comes glibly, a paraphrase of his father in a darker, softer tone. “Suffice it to say I don't see the logic in trying to save the galaxy by blowing it up.”

 

“Is that what the First Order's doing?” someone breaks in with blatant anger. “Saving the galaxy? I thought they were trying to conquer it.”

 

“Semantics,” Ben mutters.

 

“Enough,” the original questioner breaks in, his tone chiding. “Would it be fair to say you had ideological differences with the First Order?”

 

Ben thinks about Hux salivating over the chance to use the Starkiller, and grimaces. “Fair enough.”

 

“You have defected from the First Order, but you have not pledged yourself to the Resistance?”

 

Cold runs through him, but it's quickly replaced by heat. Anger. He opens his mouth to say something ill-tempered and ill-advised, but before he can, Admiral Ackbar cuts in with his usual loud and blunt manner.

 

“Objection, Major. The question is irrelevant to this session.”

 

“Understood, Admiral.”

 

From that point, the questions change: specific, incisive, and best of all, not about Ben or his motives or his misdeeds or his loyalties. Now Ben's mind is busy, unable to fall into the cracks between questions and dwell on the position he's in, and the sordid thing he's doing. Instead he's working to call up every bit of information he can dredge from his memory: the locations of First Order bases, training facilities, shipyards, prisons. An extensive list of ships and weapons, including prototypes and projects still in development. The names, aliases, and hideouts of arms dealers. As much personal information as he can recall about the more prominent members of the First Order hierarchy. These are details he's more fuzzy on, as he's never liked any of these people or had a reason to give a damn about their backgrounds. Still, he retained more than he thought he did, and the sound of them listening behind the window is loud, intent. That tells him that a lot of what he's giving them is new, is useful, and he wants to be useful. Maybe that makes his present wretchedness worth it. Maybe.

 

“You understand,” he hears himself saying in a lull between questions, his voice cracking from his dry throat, “there's much more I don't know. The Supreme Leader is ...” He stops, catching his breath in the back of his throat so hard it hurts. He had almost called Snoke _wise_. Biting his tongue, he fumbles for a better word. “... strategic in what he chooses to reveal, and who he reveals it to. There's no one he trusts completely.”

 

The Major pounces on Ben's words. “You claim to have no affiliation with Snoke any longer, but you still refer to him as the 'Supreme Leader'?”

 

Ben's temper flares again, but it's internal, his anger turned on himself. Under the table, he jabs his fingertips into his thigh as hard as he can, letting pain blossom in his skin. “Old habits,” he mutters. And this is as close to the truth as he can get. The truth is, there were times when Kylo Ren forgot to address his master with the proper deference – sometimes out of an inborn defiance, but just as often out of a misplaced sense of intimacy – an intimacy that only existed when it served Snoke's purposes to make his apprentice feel special. It could be taken away just as quickly as it was bestowed, and replaced with harshness and unkindness. And Kylo Ren learned after a time not to presume upon his master's affection, but sometimes he needed a reminder. The lesson was quite literally beaten into him, over and over again. But he doesn't owe these people that information. He doesn't even owe his mother that.

 

“Which brings us to the heart of the First Order,” the Major presses on eagerly, “its leader. You seem to have had quite a lot of access to him.”

 

 _He certainly had a lot of access to_ _ **me.**_ A bitter taste fills Ben's parched mouth at the thought, at the memories that are still wounds, unhealed.

 

“You,” says the Major, unable to conceal the curiosity in his voice, “may be one of the few beings I know of to have met him in person.”

 

Ben swallows back the bile, shaking his head. Weakly, he says, “I can't recommend the experience.”

 

Laughter spurts on the other side of the window. It's unwilling and quickly stifled, but he made someone, a couple of people from the sound of it, laugh.

 

The Major doesn't sound amused. “As such, I would expect that you would be privy to some of his personal information.”

 

Ben bites at his lower lip until he can feel the blood welling just beneath his skin, then stops, letting his breath out in a sharp sigh. The machine he's hooked to bumps out his agitated heartbeat for all to hear, and when he speaks his voice is faint. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

 

The heavy silence that follows does indicate disappointment, the disappointment of a room full of people. Finally the Major asks, in a weary, reproving tone: “Is there nothing more you can give us?”

 

_Is it not enough?_

 

Ben feels a dangerous combination brewing: exhaustion and a nervous energy scattering through him like an electrical charge. Events he has not managed to properly bury now crawl up out of their shallow graves to lay cold hands on him and drag him down, down, down …

 

_If you wish to grow in power, there will have to be sacrifices._

 

_Is that the best you can do, Kylo Ren?_

 

_I will show you the Dark Side._

 

_Even you, Master of the Knights of Ren, have never faced such a test._

 

_I am the only one in the galaxy who appreciates you, Kylo Ren. I am your destiny. Only though me will you grow strong. And what will you give me in return, my loyal apprentice?_

 

 _Anything,_ he had whispered, still a child, already broken. _Everything._

 

And the worst part was, he had done it. He had sailed right into Snoke's arms on a river of blood. He was a murderer before he was even a man. He had led assaults, performed interrogations, ordered executions. He had been so ruthless in his quest to kill the light inside of him that he hadn't even allowed love to stand in his way; he had laid his father's body on the altar of Snoke's teachings only to have his sacrifice rejected, and he can never go back, can never make it better, can never have another chance at everything he ruined while he tried to fix himself. He will never be unbroken now. He will live the rest of his life on his knees; how can he ever rise again under the weight of what he's done? He abased himself for Snoke. Now he's abasing himself for the Resistance, and he doesn't even subscribe to their cause. Why is he doing this why is he doing this why is he …

 

**Because you are weak. Because you are a coward. And no one wants you here.**

 

The room around Ben disappears, caging him in his own mind, with Snoke. He's horrified, but not resigned. Once he thought this was his fate, but he's not a child anymore, and he knows he has a choice, and he chooses to fight.

 

 _My mother thinks I'm brave. My mother wants me here._ He's trying to remind himself, but nothing in his mind is his own.

 

Hollow laughter echoes in his skull, poisonous and spiteful. **Sentimental pup, why do you think that is? You would spill out my secrets to gain her approval, and you will never have it. What will you be worth to her when you have told them everything? When you have nothing left to give her precious Resistance? What use will she have for you then?**

 

 _Stop it,_ Ben snarls. _Stop it._

 

**You stubborn boy. You believe that you can shed me like a cloak? I am woven into you. When will you see the truth? You can never take back what you have given me. You can never undo what you have done for me. The blood you shed in my service can never be unshed. We have a covenant, you and I. You will belong to me until you are dead, and even after.**

 

The deep cold voice in his head is breathless, gloating. Ben can't stand it, doesn't believe it. _That can't be true_ _it can't be true …_

 

Snoke isn't listening, Snoke has never listened or considered, only forced his will into the broken places in Ben's heart, and he keeps doing it. **Look at you,** he sneers **. Who would want you? Who could ever understand your twisted soul … apart from me?**

 

Sparks fly in Ben's mind, flickering points of heat and light showering around him.

 

Who could ever want him?

 

Who could ever understand?

 

Chewie, hugging him so tight he can hardly breathe. Uncle Luke, his blue eyes steady with truth and warm with care as he says _There is more than enough room in the galaxy for someone just like you._ Mom, bearing the weight of all the sorrow he has caused her and himself, and still choosing to hold him. Rey, on her knees with him in the mud and the rain, her forehead pressed to his, and then again on his bed earlier today, telling him _when you hurt I hurt too,_ always meeting him at his lowest, always believing he can rise above it. And Han Solo, who came back from the dead to have a second chance at saving his murderer, his son.

 

 _Snoke_ is the one who no one wants.

 

Ben can feel him out there, can sense Snoke far more clearly and certainly than Snoke can sense him: the bent and warped creature leaning forward in his narrow throne, clawed fingers gripping at the arms, crystallizing his power into something narrow and sharp, something that has always sliced into Ben Solo with such ease before. He feels the fury emanating from Snoke, fury kindled by frustration, and the frustration … by _fear_.

 

The keen awareness fades as quickly as he'd caught hold of it, but it had been enough. Enough to set his mind to racing … on its way out of Snoke's grasp. Because if Snoke is afraid of what Ben might say to the Resistance, that means he does know something worth saying. Because Ben can't fix anything he has ruined, not even himself … but he can ruin Snoke. He can destroy the one who taught him destruction. He can slay the monster who made a monster out of him.

 

 _They turn us into weapons;_ _they don't get to cry about it when we cut them._ Finn's words make so much sense right then, and there's something firm for Ben to cling to in the mess of his mind. He can feel his power coalescing, building. His power, not Snoke's.

 

 **I will always be inside you, Kylo Ren,** Snoke says terribly, the thought scraping at all of Ben's old wounds. But somehow the voice is fainter now, farther away. **You will you never shake me loose. You cannot betray me, for it means betraying yourself.**

 

The threat claws at him, but he doesn't give in to the torment, not this time. Ben Solo has spent his entire life being taught how to betray himself … Snoke was the one who taught him. That knowledge makes the monster's words ring false, and in an instant of clarity and a burst of strength, Ben wrenches himself free. He hears a hiss of wordless rage, the impact as Snoke is struck and far away, he falls from his throne and hits the floor, in pain and indignity. But then the sounds are gone, erased. All awareness, all sense of the twisted creature are gone.

 

 _I made him go away again. I did it._ The novelty of taking back his mind has not worn off, and for a split second Ben's breathless and almost giddy.

 

Only then, with the immaculate silence ringing inside his head, does Ben become aware of his surroundings once more, falling back into his body with a sickening thud. His hands are shaking, all of him is shaking, the whole table is shaking and lifting off the floor. People are talking fast and loud, but he can't distinguish the voices, much less the words. His head is pounding, his stomach heaving, and in the background of it all is the chaotic beep of the machine that's taking the measure of his pulse, his heartbeats. It's too much: the sound of his inner turmoil blaring out loud for all of them to hear. _No more._

 

The machine whines and clicks to a stop, an acrid smoke trailing thinly from its innards. Ben hears his mother's voice – dimly, as if from a distance – calling for a recess. Apparently it's granted, because as he slumps in his seat, eyes shut tight, breathing ragged, she appears beside him, touching his shoulder.

 

“Ben, it's all right,” Leia tells him, her voice quiet but firm, assuring. “You're all right. You're safe here, and you're doing just fine. It will be over soon, and then ...”

 

“And then what?” Ben can hardly find his voice; he feels weaker than ever. Sure, he banished Snoke, but the doubts and fears and the damage of thirty years of hell remain. “I shouldn't be here.”

 

“Ben ...” Leia's voice is softer now, and her eyes are worried.

 

“They're afraid of me.” The words come out half-growled, mangled between his gritted teeth.

 

“People often are afraid of what they don't understand.”

 

“No. They should be afraid. I don't belong, and they all know it. You … you know it too.”

 

Leia's dark eyes flash, and she anchors him with a piercing look, a squeeze of his shoulder. “That's not true, Ben. You have a place in this fight, so you do belong here. More importantly, you belong with me.”

 

Whispers rise again in Ben, and he tries to make them stop but they don't. They're his own whispers, not Snoke's. He can't take any comfort in his victory because it came at such a cost … Snoke's vile touch in his thoughts, even though he rejected it, leaves him feeling low and stained. “I'm a traitor,” he whispers, his voice as broken as he. Faithless, worthless, spineless, everything he has always despised, everything he has always been and still is, will always be …

 

… his mother takes his hands in both of hers. “No,” she tells him. “You're a rebel.”

 

She intends it as the highest praise, and his heart quakes because of how much he wants to feel it. But he's still so frightened.

 

“You're using me to destroy him,” Ben says so low he can barely hear himself, but he knows his mother hears him. “Just as he would have had me destroy you.”

 

It shouldn't bother him. If he was born to be a weapon, then it's only right he should be wielded by the one who forged him. But it hurts to know that's all he's good for.

 

His mother's hands tremble and tighten, holding onto his like he'll slip out of her reach if she doesn't; he can feel her shaking. _She's frightened too?_ “Ben, sweetheart, no … it's not like that at all.”

 

He wants to believe her. He wants to more than anything. But how can he, how _can_ he when he's been lied to all his life? He tries to tell himself it doesn't matter, but it does, it _does_.

 

“I'll fail you,” he says. “I'll fail you and you'll send me away, like you did before.”

 

His mother locks her fingers with his, in an effort to still both their shaking. “Search your feelings, Ben,” she whispers fiercely, looking deep into his eyes. “Search your heart. Not anything he ever told you, not what I'm telling you. Somewhere, somewhere deep inside you, you must know how much you mean to me. What does your heart tell you?”

 

Ben breathes. Tries to drown out all the noise. To focus in on what lies deep inside, a hidden place, somewhere the lies and the myriad cruelties can't reach, where innocence still shelters: not dead, but sleeping, and he's waking it up, and it's there he finds the truth.

 

There is so much to his mother: decades of fighting and pain and suffering and loss, but the light that shines at the heart of her, the light that makes her who she is, is something that he can't help but recognize … because that light is in him too. And when she fights, she fights for him, even when they're on opposing sides. And when he suffers, she suffers too. And no matter how far apart they ever were, he has always been with her, and she with him.

 

She loves him, and she would still love him even if he had nothing to offer the Resistance, and she would still love him even if he was trying to kill them all. Hope might fade over time, but love never will. He's broken her heart over and over again, but he is safe there and always will be.

 

A few silent tears slide down Ben's face, but with the tears comes a strange kind of calm. A peace.

 

“Of course I want to destroy him,” his mom is saying now, with a sun's fire in her voice. “And I could use your help to do it. But you are _not_ a weapon. You're my son.”

 

“And you're my mom,” Ben says quietly. He takes a big, shaky breath, filling his lungs and emptying them slowly. He blinks the silent tears away. This time when he looks into her eyes, his are clear, and it's like he's seeing her again for the first time, with the purity of a newborn. He clasps her hands as she clasps his, feeling heat and power and purpose returning to his fingers. “I want to help.”

  
“You already have, Ben.”

 

She kisses his forehead, and fixes his hair: fluffing it over his ears instead of tucking it behind them. His dad used to do that, because he didn't understand why Ben didn't like his ears. But Mom always understood, even if she did tell him they were nothing to be embarrassed about. This time the memory of childhood brings comfort instead of pain, and Ben is able to tip his mouth into the hint of a real smile for his mother.

 

“Drink some water,” she insists, pressing the canteen into his shaking hands. Ben relents, which is the right decision. His mouth was so dry, and his head is pounding.

 

“You've done enough,” Leia says decidedly, watching his weary face. “You don't have to answer any more questions.”

 

Ben shakes his head. “No. Let's finish this.”

 

Because he does have one more piece of information that the Resistance might like to hear. Something no one else has. Something he took from Snoke when Snoke was too busy trying to take him back to notice. It may not end up doing them any good, but it may, and besides … it will do Ben good to say it.

 

His mom smiles at him again, a blazing smile.

 

 _She's proud of me,_ Ben thinks. _She really is._

 

And just that, knowing someone is proud of him, is enough.

 

Ben knows where Snoke is. And he tells the Resistance. And he isn't one bit sorry.

 


End file.
